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January to June, 1891. 


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{Illustrations by W. H. J. Boot, R.B.A.) 


(Written and Illustrated by Ikving Montagu.) 


(Illustrations from Special Photographs and from Drawings by Miss Mabel Hardy.) 

ARCHITECT'S WIFE, THE. From the Spanish of Antonio Trueba 248 

(Illustrations by SIDNEY PAGET, and W. H. J. BOOT, R.B.A.) 


(Illustrations by G. F. Watts, R.A., Hon. John Collier, and Madame Starr Canziani.) 


(Illustrations by John Gulich) 

BARAK'S WIVES. A Story for Children, from the Hungarian of MORITZ JoKAI 220 

(Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, R.B.A.) 

BELISAIRES PRUSSIAN (See Scenes of the Stege of Paris) 36 


(Illustrations by Edgar Wilson.) 


BOY SPY, THE (See Scenes of the Sibge of Paris) 31 



CAMILLE. From the French of Alfred de Musset 318 

(Illustrations by H. FORESTIER.) 


CAPTAIN JONES OF THE " ROSE." By W. Clark Russell M 491 

(Illustrations by W. CHRISTIAN SYMONS.) 


(Illustrations by Miss Ll QuESNE.) 


(Illustrations by Miss KATE CRAUFURD and HAROLD Oakley.) 


Barak's Wives ... .*. ... 220 

Enchanted Whistle, The 552 

Genies, The Two * 105 

Hermit, The 655 

Spider's Web, The 437 

Stone-breaker, The 328 



(Illustrations by J. L. WlMBUSH.) 

DEADLY DILEMMA, A. By Grant Allen ... ., 14 

(Illustrations by W. RAINEY.) 

DECAY OF HUMOUR IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. By Henry W. Lucy («• Toby, M.P.") 254 
(Illustrations by F. C. GOULD.) 


(Illustrations by Miss Mabel D. Hardy.) 

DRESSING-ROOMS, ACTORS' Oigjfla fingiT I7 8 


660 INDEX. 


EIGHTEENTH CENTURY JULIET, AN. A Story founded on the French. By James Mortimer 
{Illustrations by Pau{, HARDY.) 

ENCHANTED WHISTLE, THE. From the French of Alex. Dumas 

{Illustrations by H. MILL A R.) 


Handbill of H. M. Stanley's First Lecture 

Humours of the Post Office 520, 

Novelists* MSS 

Playwrights* MSS. 

Sermon Notes by Cardinal Manning 

Speech by John Bright 

FAIR SMUGGLER, A. From the Russian of Michael Lermontoff 49 

(Illustrations by W. B. WoLLEN, R.I.) 


GENIES, THE TWO, A Story for Children. From the French of Voltaire 105 

(Illustrations by JOHN Gulich.) 


{Illustrations by G. Lambert and Harold Oakley.) 


{Illustrations by F. BANNISTER.) 

HERMIT, THE. From the French of Voltaire 655 

(Illustrations by ALAN WRIGHT.) 

HOW NOVELISTS WRITE FOR THE PRESS. Fac-similes of the MSS. of William Black, 

Walter Besant, Bret Harte, and Grant Allen... 295 


(Illustrations by JOHN GuLICH.) 


HOW THE REDOUBT WAS TAKEN. From the French of Prosper MiRiMfeE 174 

(Illustrations by SIDNEY PAGET.) 

JAMRACH'S ••• 429 

(Illustrations by J. L. WlMBUSH.) 

IANKO THE MUSICIAN. From the Polish of Sienkiewicz 628 

(Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.) 

JENNY. From the French of Victor Hugo 527 

(Illustrations by CYRUS JOHNSON, R.I.) 

JERRY STOKES, By Grant Allen 299 

{Illustrations by A. PEARSE.) 

KING'S STRATAGEM, THE. By S. J. Weyman 361 

(Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.) 





(Illustrations by A. LUDOVICI.) 






{Illustrations by A. PEARSE.) 

MAID OF TREPPI, THE. From the German of Paul Heyse 57,133 

(Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.B.A.) 
MAKING AN ANGEL. By J. Harwood Panting 235 

{Illustrations by Gordon BkowNE, R.B.A.) 



{Illustrations from Special Photographs by the LONDON Sterbo.iCOFK: COMPANY, and Drawings 

by Miss Mabel Hardy and W. B. Wollen, R.L) 










" H 








MINISTER'S CRIME, THE. By Maclaren Cobban ._ _ 

(Illustrations by-W. S. Stacey.) 


MIRROR, THE. From the French of Leo Lespes 

(Illustrations by N. Prescott Da vies). 


(Illustrations by J. JOHNSON.) 

NEW INDUSTRY FOR LADIES, A. By Miss Grace Harriman ... ... 

(Illustrations by Miss I. G. BRITTAIN.) 


NIGHT IN AN OPIUM DEN, A. By the Author of " A Daad Man's Diary " 

(Illustrations by J. L. WlMBUSH.) 


(Illustrations by JOHN GiJLICH.) 


(Illustrations by W. S. STACEY.) 



(Written and illustrated by C. B. B. BARRETT.) 

ON THE STUMP FOR THE PUMP. By Sir Wilfrid Lawson ... 

(Illustrations by J. F. SULLIVAN, C. HARRISON, and from Photographs.) 


(Illustrations by J. H. HlPSLEY.) 


(Illustrations by J. JOHNSON.) 


(Illustrations by A. Pearse.) 

PASTOR'S DAUGHTER, THE. From the German of Julius Theis ... 
(Illustrations by A. Pearse.) 

PASSION IN THE DESERT, A. From the French of Balzac ~ 

(Illustrations by A. PEARSE.) 

PICTURE-LETTER, A. By Sir Edwin Landseer 334 


(Illustrations from pictures by Reynolds, Gainsborough, Landseer, and E. T. PARRIS, and 
Drawings by Alan Wright.) 
PIECE OF GOLD, THE. From the French oi Francis Copp£e ~ ... 3°8 

(Illustrations by J. FlNNEMORE.) 

PISTOL-SHOT, THE. From the Russian of Alexander Pushkin 115 

(Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.) 




... 143 

... 78 

... 143 

.- 378 

... 268 

... 624 

... 124 

... 466 

... 29s 

... 487 

... 356 

... 39i 

... 143 

... 571 

~ 539 

... a 10 

Albani, Madame 597 

Argyll, Duke of 280 

Bancroft, Mr. and Mrs. 159 

Barrett, Wilson 512 

Black, William 282 

Blackie, Professor 42 

Bradlaugh, Charles 376 

Clarence and Avondale, Duke of ... 594 

Empress of Germany 279 

Farjeon, B. L 515 

Fife, Duchess of 595 

George, Prince 596 

Gladstone, W. E 156 

Granville, Earl 370 

Haggard, H. Rider 48 

Hark, John 158 

Huxley, Professor 160 

Irving, Henry 45 

Jansen, Miss Agnes 598 

Joachim, Herr 516 

Jones, Henry A 518 

Langtry, Mrs 157 

Lubbock, Sir J., Bart 47 

Manning, Cardinal ,.. [ l-O* ••• x 54 

Millais, Sir John E., Bart. (R.A.) 372 

Patti, Adelina 161 

Pettitt, H 377 

Pinero, A. H 5 X 7 

Princess Beatrice 278 

Queen, Her Majesty the 277 

korke, Miss Mary 5*9 

Rorke, Miss Kate 593 

Ruskin, John 155 

Sims, George R 5*4 

Stanley, Henry M 284 

Spurgeon, Rev. C. II 43 

Swinburne, Algernon C 4^ 

Tennyson, Lord 4 1 

Terriss, William 375 

Terry, Miss Ellen 44 

Terry, Miss Marion 374 

Toole, J. L 59* 

Tree, H. Beerbohm 281 

Wallis, Sir Provo 513 

Watts, G. F. (R.A.) 371 

Webster, Sir Richard 373 

WiLLAKDRftomaifran 592 

Wvn »™fwichi<tan - - ' 8l 

662 INDEX. 


POST OFFICE, HUMOURS OF THE. With Fac-similes _ mmm „ ... — $20, 599 

QUEEN OF SPADES, THE. From the Russian of Alexander Pushkin ... .- _ .- 87 
{Illustrated by Paul Hardy.) 

QUEEN'S FIRST BABY, THE „ - .. - _ ... - _ «6 

RYNARD GOLD REEF COMPANY, LIMITED. By Walter Besant ... ^ ... ... 5*6 

{Illustrated by W. S. STACEY.) 


1.— The Boy Spy. 2.— Belisaire's Prussian. From the French of ALPHONSE Daudet. 
{Illustrations by SIDNEY PAGET.) 





( Written and Illustrated by H. Tuck ) 

SLAP-BANG. From the French of Jules Claketie .*, - 150 

{Illustrations by W. Rainey.) 

SMUGGLER, A FAIR .. mm ... ... 49 

SNOWSTORM, THE. From the Russian of Alexander Pushkin _ 358 

{Illustrations by Paul Hardy.) 


SPIDER'S WEB, THE. From the French of Jaques Normand ... 437 

{Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, R.B.A.) 

STATE OF THE LAW COURTS, THE ... ... ... .. ... 402,531,638 

{Illustrations by by A. LUDOVICI.) 

STONE-BREAKER, THE. From the French of Quatrelles 328 

{Illustrations by ALAN W. WRIGHT.) 

{Illustrations by Harry Payne, Sydney Paget, and W. B. Wollen, R.I.) 


{Illustrations by G. C. HaitiL) 


{Illustrations by JOHN GuLICH.) 

THING THAT GLISTENED, A. By F. R. Stockton 397 

{Illustrations by I\ FELLER.) 

THREE BIRDS ON A STILE. By B. L. Fakjeon 612 

{Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.) 

TORTURE BY HOPE, A. From the French ci Villiers DE l'isle-Adam ... 559 

(Illustrations by Paul Hardy.) 


TWO FISHERS. From the French of Guy de Maupassant ~ 343 

{Illustrations by LESLIE BROOKE.) 

VICTORIA CROSS, STORIES OF THE .. ... 286, 410, 547 

VOICE OF SCIENCE, THE. By A. Conan Doyle 3" 

{Illustrations by \V. S. STACEY.) 

WALTZ IN FAUST, THE. By Richard Dowling ._ ... .~ .~ .- 3*2 

{Illustrations by KKNFST G. BkaCH.) 



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Original from 


Jfl^UKRY, ,891. 


HE Editor of The Strand Magazine 
respectfully places his first number in the 
hands of the public. 

The Strand Magazine will be issued 
regularly in the early part of each month. 
It will contain stories and articles by the best British writers, 
and special translations from the first foreign authors. These 
will be illustrated by eminent artists. 

Special new features which have not hitherto found place in 
Magazine Literature will be introduced from time to time. 

It may be said that with the immense number of existing 
Monthlies there is no necessity for another. It is believed, how- 
ever, that The Strand Magazine will soon occupy a position 
which will justify its existence. 

The past efforts of the Editor in supplying cheap, healthful 
literature have met with such generous favour from the public, 
that he ventures to hope that this new enterprise will prove a 
popular one. He is conscious of many defects in the first issue, 
but will strive after improvement in the future. 

Will those who like this number be so good as to assist, by 
making its merits, if they are kind enough to think that it has any, 

known to their friends. 

Original from 


by Google 

7/lt. StrQtvd from &£77m*}M/ 

The Story of the Strand, 

STRAND is a great 
deal more than Lon- 
don's most ancient 
and historic street : it 
is in many regards the 
most i n t e r e sti 1 1 g street 
in the world. It has 
iKrt, like Whitehall or the Place de la 
Concorde, seen the execution of a king j it 
has never, like the Rue de Rivoli, been 
swept by grape-shot ; nor has it, like the 
Antwerp Place de Meir, run red with 
massacre. Of violent incident it has seen 
but little ; its interest is the interest of 
association and development. Thus it has 
been from early Plantagenet days, ever 
changing its aspect, growing from a river- 
side bridle-path to a stieet of palaces, and 
from the abiding-place of the great nobles, 
by whose grace the king wore his crown, to 
a row of shops about which there is nothing 
that is splendid and little that is remark- 
able. It is not a fine street, and only here 
and there ls it at all striking or picturesque. 
But now T as of yore, it is the high road be- 
tween the two cities — puissant London and 
imperial Westminster. From the days of 
the Edwards to this latest moment it has 
been the artery through which the tide of 
Empire has flowed. Whenever England 
has been victorious or has rejoiced, when- 
ever she has been in sadness or tribulation, 
the Strand has witnessed it all. It has been 
filled with the gladness of triumph, the 
brilliant mailed cavalcades that knew so 
well how to ride down Europe ; filled, too, 
with that historic procession which remains 
the high water-mark of British pageantry, 
in the midst of which the king came to his 
own again. The tide of Empire has 
flowed westward along the Strand for 

generations which we may number but not 
realise, and it remains to-day the most im- 
port ant, as it was once the sole, highway 
between the two cities. 

What the Strand looked like when it wa> 
edged with fields, and the road, even now 
not very wide, was a mere bridle-path, and 
a painful one at that, they who know the 
wilds of Connemara may best realise. From 
the western gate of the city of London — a 
small and feeble city as yet — to the West- 
minster Marshes, where already there was 
an abbey, and where sometimes the king 
held his court, was a long and toilsome 
journey, with the tiny village of Charing for 
halting- place midway. No palaces were 
there ; a few cabins perhaps, and footpads 
certainly. Such were the unpromising be- 
ginnings of the famous street which 
naturally gained for itself the name of 
Strand, because it ran along the river bank 
— a bank which, be it remembered, came up 
much closer than it does now, as we may 
see by the forlorn and derelict water-gate of 
York House, at the Embankment end of 
Buckingham-street. Then by degrees, as 
the age of the Barons approached, when 
kings reigned by the grace of God, perhaps, 
but first of all k>y favour of the peers, the 
Strand began to be peopled by the salt of 
the earth. 

Then arose fair mansions, chiefly upon the 
southern side, giving upon the river, for the 
sake of the airy gardens, as well as of easy 
access to the stream which remained London's 
great and easy highway until long after the 
Strand had been paved and rendered practic- 
able for wheels It was upon the water, then, 
that the real pageant of London life — a fine 
and welUcflluured rageant it must often have 
been— was to be been'J'By water it was that 



the people of the great houses went to their 
plots, their wooings, their gallant intriguer, 
to Court, or to Parliament. Also it was by 
water that not infrequently they went, by 
way of Traitor's Gate, to Tower Hill, or at 
least to dungeons which were only saved 
from being eternal by policy or expediency, 
This long Strand of palaces became the 
theatre of a vast volume of history which 
marked the rise and extension of some of 
the grandest houses 
that had been 
founded in feudal- 
ism, or have been 
built upon itsruins. 
Some of the fami- 
lies which lived 
there in power and 
pomp are mere 
memories now; 
but the names of 
many r>f them are 
still familiar in 
Belgravia as once 
they were in the 
Strand. There was, 
to start with j the 
original Somerset 
House, more pic- 
turesque, let us 
hope, than the 
depressing mauso- 
leum which now 
daily reminds us 
that man is mortal. 
Then there was 
the famous York 
House, nearer to 
Charing Cross, of 
which nothing but 
the water-gate is 
left. On the op- 
posite side of the 
way was Burleigh 
House, the home 
of the great states- 
man who, under God and Queen Elizabeth, 
did such great things for England* Bur- 
leigh is one of the earliest recorded cases 
of a man being killed by over-work. * L Base 
and pleasure, " he sighed, while yet he w^as 
under fifty, " quake to hear of death ; but 
my life, full of cares and miseries, desire th 
to be dissolved. " The site of Burleigh 
House is kept in memory, as those of so 
many other of the vanished palaces of the 
Strand, by a street named after it ; and the 
office of this magazine stands no doubt upon 
a part of Lord Burleigh 's old garden, When 

Southampton House, Essex House, the 
Palace of the Savoy, and Northumber- 
land House, which disappeared so lately, 
arc added, we have still mentioned but 
a few of the more famous of the Strand 

But the Strand is distinguished for a vast 
deal more than that* Once upon a time, it 
was London's Belgravia, It was never 
perhaps the haunt of genius, as the Fleet- 
street tributaries 
were ; it was mv*:r 
an Alsatia, as 
Whitefriars was, 
nor had it the 
many interests of 
the Cfty itself. But 
it had a little of 
all these things, 
and the result is 
that the interest 
of the Strand is 
unique. It would 
be easy to spend a 
long day in the 
Strand and its 
tributaries, search- 
ing for landmarks 
of other days, and 
visiting sites which 
have long been 
historic. But the 
side streets are, if 
anything, more in- 
teresting than the 
main thoroughfare, 
and they deserve 
a special and sepa- 
rate visit, when 
the mile or so of 
road -way be t ween 
what was Temple 
Bar and Charing 
Cross has been ex- 
hausted. Could 
Londoners of even 
only a hundred years ago see the Strand as 
we know it, they would be very nearly as 
much surprised as a Cockney under the 
PlantagenetSj who should have re -visited his 
London in the time of the Georges. They 
who knew the picturesque but ill-kept 
London of the Angevin sovereigns found 
the Strand a place of torment. 

In 1353 the road was so muddy and so 
full of ruts that a commissioner was 
appointed to repair it at the expense of the 
frontagers. Even towards the end of 
Henry VIQ^fieign it was "full of pits and 




sloughs, very perilous and noisome.* p 
Yet it was by this miserable road that 
Cardinal Wolsey, with his great and 
stately retinue, passed daily from his house 
in Chancery-lane to Westminster HalL In 
that respect there is nothing in the changed 
condition of things to regret ; but we may, 
indeed , be sorry for this : that there is left, 
save in its churches, scarcely a brick of the 
old Strand. 

Still there are memories enough, and 
for these we may be thankful. Think only 
of the processions that have passed up from 
Westminster to St. Paul's, or the other way 
about ! Remember that wonderful caval- 
cade amid which Charles II. rode back 
from his Flemish exile to the palace which 
had witnessed his father's death. Nothing 
like it has been seen in England since. 
Evelyn has left us a description of the 
scene, which is the more dramatic for being 
brief: u May 29, 1660, This day His Majesty 
Charles II. came to London, after a sad and 
long exile and calamitous suffering, both of 
the King and Church, being seventeen year-. 
This was also his birthday, and, with a tri- 
umph above 20,000 horse and foot, brandish- 

ing their swords and shouting with 
inexpressible joy ; the way strew'd 
with flowers, the bells ringing, the 
streets hung with tapestry, foun- 
tains running with wine ; the 
mayor, aldermen , and all the 
companies in their liveries, chains 
of gold, and banners j lords and 
nobles clad in cloth of silver, gold, 
and velvet ; the windows and 
balconies well set with ladies ; 
trumpets, music, and myriads of 
people. . . , They were eight 
hours passing the city, even from 
two till ten at night." I stood in 
the Strand, and beheld it, and 
bless'd God*" A century earlier 
Elizabeth had gone in state to Si. 
Paul's, to return thanks for the 
destruction of the Armada. Next, 
Queen Anne went in triumph up 
to St. Paul's, after Blenheim ; and, 
long after, the funeral processions 
of Nelson and Wellington were 
added to the list of great historic 
sights which the Strand has seen* 
The most recent of these great 
processions was the Prince of 
Wales's progress of thanksgiving 
to St. Paul's in 1872, 

Immediately we leave what was 
Temple Bar, the Strand's memo- 
ries begin. We have made only a few 
steps from Temple Bar, when we come to 
a house — No. 217, now a branch of the 
London and Westminster Bank — which, 
after a long and respectable history, saw 
its owners at length overtaken by shame 
and ruin. It was the banking-house of 
Strahan, Paul & Bates, which had been 
founded by one Snow and his partner 
Walton in Cromwell's days. In 

ginning the house was ** The 

the be- 
& Co. 

Anchor," and Messrs, Strahan 
have among their archives ledgers (kept in 
decimals !) which go back to the time of 
Charles II, 

In 1855 it was discovered that some of 
the partners had been using their cus- 
tomers' money for their own pleasures or 
necessities. The guilty persons all went to 
prison ; one of the few instances in which, 
as in the case of Fauntleroy, who was 
hanged for forgery, English bankers have 
been convicted of breach of trust. Adjoin- 
ing this house is that of Messrs. Twining, 
who opened, in 1710, the first tea-shop in 
London. They still deal in tea, though 
fine ladies no longer go to the Eastern 



in Boswell's 
which he is 
preserved in 


Strand in their carriages to drink it, out of 
curiosity, at a shilling a cup. 

One of the most interesting buildings 
in Essex-street, the u Essex Head * f tavern, 
has only just been pulled down. There 
it was that Dr. Johnson founded " Sam's " 
Club, so named after the landlord, Samuel 
Graves, Dr, Johnson himself drew up 
the rules of the club, as we may 
" Life-" The chair 
reported to have sat was 
preserved m the house to the end. It 
is now cared for at the '■ Cheshire 
Cheese $p in Fleet-street. A very redoubt- 
able gentleman who formerly lived in 
Essex -street was Dr, George Fordyce, who 
for twenty years drank daily with his dinner 
a jug of strong ale, a quarter of a pint of 
brandy, and a bottle of port* And he was 
able to lecture to his students after- 
wards ! 

Nearly opposite Essex-street stands one 
of the most famous of London landmarks — 
the church of St. Clement Danes. Btilt as 
recently as 1682, it is the successor of a far 
older building. Its most 
interesting association is 
with Dr. Johnson, whose 
pew in the north gallery is 
still reverently kept, and 
an inscription marks 
spot. In this church 
it was that Miss 
Davies, the heiress, 
who brought the 
potentiality of un- 
told wealth into the 
family of the Gros- 
venors, was married 
to the progenitor of 
the present Duke of 
Westminster. St. 
Clement Danes is 
one of the few Eng- 
lish churches with 
a c aril fan ^ which is 
of course set to 
psalm tunes. Mil- 
ford -lane, opposite, was 
once really a lane with a 
bridge over a little stream 
which emptied into the 
Thames. Later on it 
marked the boundary of 
Arundel House, the homo 
of the Dukes of Norfolk, 
who have built Arundel, 
Norfolk, Howard, and Sur- 
rey streets upon its site, (In 

the time of Edward VI. the Earl of 
Arundel bought the property for forty 
pounds, which would seem to have been a 
good bargain even for those days. In 
Arundel House died " old Parr," who, ac- 
cording to the inscription upon his tomb in 
Westminster Abbey, lived to be 152 years 
old. Happily for himself he had lived all 
his life in Shropshire, and the brief space 
that he spent in London killed him. 

The streets that have been built upon the 
site of old Arundel House are full of in- 
teresting associations. The house at the 
south - western corner of Norfolk and 
Ho ward- streets — it is now the 4i Dysart 
Hotel " — has a very curious history- A 
former owner — it was some sixty years since 
— was about to be married, The wedding 
breakfast was laid out in a large room on 
the first floor, and all was ready, except the 
lady, who changed her mind at the last 
minute. The jilted bride- 
groom locked up the ban- 
quet-chamber, put the key 
in his pocket, and, 10 the 


story runs, never again allowed it to be 
entered. There, it was said, still stood 
such mouldering remains of the wedding 
breakfast as the 
rats and mice had 
spared. Certain ly 
the window cur- 
tains could for 
many years be 
seen crumbling to 
pieces j bit by bit, 
and the windows 
looked exactly 
one would expect 
the windows of the 
typical haunted 
chamber to look. 
It is only of late 
that the room ha^ 
been re-openet: 
The name of the 
supposed hero of 
this story has often 
been mentioned, 
but, since the story 
may quite possibly 
be baseless, it 
would be impro- 
per to repeat it. 
But there is no 
doubt whatever 
that for nearly 
half a century 

This same 
Howard- street 
was the scene, 
in 1692, short- 
ly after it was 
built, of a 
tragedy which 

remained for generations in the popular 
memory. It took place within two or 
three doors of the w Dysart Hotel." The 
central figure of the pitiful story was Mrs. 
Bracegirdle, the famous and beautiful 
actress. One of her many admirers. Cap- 
tain Richard Hill, had offered her marriage, 
and had been refused. But he was not to 
be put off in that wav. If he could not 
obtain the lady by fair means he was 
determined to get her by force. He there- 
fore resolved, with the assistance of Lord 
Mohun — a notorious person, who was after- 
wards killed in Hyde-park in a duel with 
the Duke of Hamilton — to carry her off. 

was soii"k 



G r <3fd§lf 

They stationed a coach in Drury-Iane, and 
attempted to kidnap her as she was passing 
down the street after the play. The lady's 

screams drew such 
a crowd that the 
abductors were 
forced to bid their 
men let her go. 
They escorted her 
home (a sufficient- 
ly odd proceeding 
in the circum- 
stances), and then 
remained outside 
Mrs. Bracegirdle's 
house in Howard- 
street " vowing re- 
venge/ 1 the con- 
temporary ac- 
counts say, but 
against whom is 
not clear. Hill 
and Lord Mohun 
drank a bottle of 
wine in the middle 
r>f the street, per- 
haps to keep their 
courage up, and 
presently Mr, Will 
Mountfort, an ac- 
tor, who lived in 
came along. 
Mountfort had al- 
ready heard what 
had happened, and 
he at once went 
up to Lord Mohun 
(who, it is said, 
i4 embraced him 
very tenderly ,h ), 
and reproached 
him with '* justify- 
ing the rudeness 
of Captain Hill/* and with "keeping 
company with such a pitiful fellow." " And 
then/ 1 according to the Captain's servant, 
" the Captain came forward and said he 
would justify himself, and went towards the 
middle of the street and drew/' Some of 
the eye-witnesses said that they fought, but 
others declared that Hill ran Mountfort 
through the body before he could draw his 
sword. At all events, Hill instantly ran 
away, and when the watch arrived they 
found only Lord Mohun, who .surrendered 
himself. He seems to have had no part in 
the murder, and his sword was still sheathed 
when he wa* mad? prisoner. It is said that 



Hill already had a grudge against Mount - 
fort t whom he suspected of being Mrs. 
Bracegirdle's favoured lover. But the best 
contemporary evidence agrees that the 
lady's virtue was u as impregnable as the 
rock of Gibraltar/ T 

Nearly opposite the scene of this brutal 
tragedy, the church of St. Mary-le-Strand 
was built some five-and -twenty years later* 
It is a picturesque building, and makes a 
striking appearance when approached from 
the west. It has of late been more than 
once proposed that it should be demolished, 
at once by reason of the obstruction which 
it causes in the roadway, and because of its 
ill-repair. But since it has now been put 
into good condition, the people who would 
so gaily pull down a church to widen 
a road will perhaps not be again heard from. 
According to Hume, Prince Charles Edward, 
during his famous stolen visit to London, 
formally renounced in this church the 
Roman Catholic religion, to strengthen his 
claim to the throne ; but there has never 
been any manner of proof of that state- 
ment. The site of St. Mary-le-Strand was 
long famous as the spot upon which the 
Westminster maypole stood, and what is 
now Newcastle-street was called Maypole- 
lane down to the beginning of the present 
century. At the Restoration, a new may- 
pole, 134 feet high, was set up, the Crom- 
well ians having destroyed the old one, in 
the presence of the King and the Duke of 
York, The pole is said to have been spliced 
together with iron bands by a blacksmith 
named John Clarges, whose daughter Anne 
married General Monk, who, for his services 
in bringing about the Restoration, was 

created Duke of Albemarle. Three or four 
suits were brought to prove that her first 
husband was still living when she married 
the Duke, and that consequently the second 
(and last) Duke of Albemarle was illegi- 
timate, but the blacksmith's daughter gained 
them all. Near the Olympic Theatre there 
still exists a Maypole-alley. 

It is hardly necessary to say that the 
present Somerset House, which is exactly 
opposite the church of St. Mary-le-Strand, 
is not the original building of that name. 
People — praise to their taste ! — did not build 
in that fashion in the time of the Tudors, 
The old house, built by not the cleanest 
means, by the Protector Somerset, was 
"such a palace as had not been seen in 
England. 1f After Somerset's attainder it 
became the recognised Dower House of the 
English Queens, It was built with the 
materials of churches and other people's 
houses, John of Padua was the architect, 
and it was a sumptuous palace indeed ; but 
if Somerset ever lived in it, it was for a very 
brief space. One of the accusations upon 
which he was attainted was that he had 
spent money in building Somerset House, 
but had allowed the King's soldiers to go 
unpaid. It was close to the Water Gate of 
Somerset House that the mysterious murder 
of Sir Edmundbury Godfrey took place in 
1678. The story of the murder is so doubt- 
ful and complicated that it is impossible to 
enter upon it here. Sir Edmundbury was 
induced to go to the spot where he was 
strangled under the pretence that, as a 
justice of the peace, he could stop a quarrel 
that was going on. Titus Oates, the most 
finished scoundrel ever born on British soil, 


: fw». * M^NtiNTtEftijiHTOF MICHIGAN 



suggested that the Jesuits and even Queen 
Henrietta Maria were concerned in instigat- 
ing the murder ? and three men were hung 
at Tyburn for their supposed share in it. 
Around the Somerset House of that day 
there were extensive gardens of that square 
formal fashion which , although pleasing 
enough to the antiquary, are anathema to 
the artistic eye. Old Somerset House was 
demolished in the early days of George IIL, 
and the present building, of which Sir 
Wm. Chambers was the architect, was com- 
menced in 1776. 

Another interesting bit of the southern 
side of the Strand is the region still called 
The Savoy* The old Palace of the Savoy 
was built by Simon de Montfort, but it 
afterwards passed to Peter 
of Savoy, uncle of Queen 
Eleanor, who gave to the 
precinct the name which 
was to become historical. 
There it was that King John 
of France was housed after 
he was taken prisoner at 
Poictiers ; and there too he 
died. The Palace of the 
Savoy was set on fire and 

E hindered by Wat Tyler and 
is men in 1381. It was 
rebuilt and turned into a 
hospital by Henry VII. In 
the new building the liturgy 
of the Church of England 
was revised after the restora- 
tion of Charles II. ; but the 
most interesting association 
of the place must always be 
that there Chaucer wrote a portion of the 
" Canterbury Tales/ j and that John of 
Ghent lived there. After many vicissitudes 
and long ruin and neglect! the last remains 
of the Palace and Hospital of the Savoy 
were demolished at the beginning of the 
present century, to permit of a better 
approach to Waterloo Bridge, 

A little farther west, in Beaufort-build- 
ings, Fielding once resided. A contempo- 
rary tells how he was once hard put to it to 
pay the parochial taxes for this house. The 
tax-collector at last lost patience, and 
Fielding was compelled to obtain an advance 
from Jacob Tonson, the * famous publisher, 
whose shop stood upon a portion of the site 
of Somerset House. He returned home 
with ten or twelve guineas in his pocket, 
but meeting at his own door an old college 
chum who had fallen upon evil times, he 
emptied his pockets, and was unable to 

satisfy the tax-gatherer until he had paid a 
second visit to the kindly and accommodat- 
ing Tonson. Another of the great Strand 
palaces stood on this site—Worcester House, 
which, after being the residence of the 
Bishops of Carlisle, became the town house 
of the Earls of Worcester. Almost adjoining 
stood Salisbury, or Cecil House, which W T as 
built by Robert Cecil, first Earl of Salisbury t 
a son of the sage Lord Burghley, whose 
town house stood on the opposite side of 
the Strand, It was pulled down more than 
two hundred years ago, after a very brief 
existence, and Cecil and Salisbury streets 
were built upon its site. Yet another 
Strand palace, Durham House, the " inn TT 
of the Bishops Palatine of Durham, stood 


a little nearer to Charing Cross. It was of 
great antiquity, and was rebuilt as long ago 
as 1345. Henry VIIL obtained it by 
exchange, and Queen Elizabeth gave it to 
Sir Walter Raleigh. The most interesting 
event that ever took place in the house was 
the marriage of Lady Jane Grey to Lord 
Guildford Dudley, Eight weeks later she 
was proclaimed Queen, to her sorrow. Still 
nearer to Charing Cross, and upon a portion 
of the site of Durham House, is the famous 
bank of the Messrs. Coutts, one of the oldest 
of the London banks. The original Coutts 
was a shrewd Scotchman, who, by his wit 
and enterprise, speedily became rich and 
famous. He married one of his brother's 
domestic servants, and of that marriage, 
which turned out very happily, Lady 
Burdett-Coutts is a grandchild* Mr. Coutts' 
second wife was Miss Harriet Mellon, a dis- 
tinguished actress of her day. to whom he 

"iversity of Mkhiean 



left the whole of his fortune of £qao } ooo. 
When the lady, who afterwards became 
Duchess of St, Albans, died in the year of 
the Queen *s accession, that ^900,000 formed 
the foundation of the great fortune of Miss 
Angela Burdett, better known to this 
generation as Lady Burdett-Coutts. Messrs. 
Courts' banking-house is an interesting 
building, with many portraits of the early 
friends and customers of the house, which 

included Dn 
Johnson and 
Sir Walter 
Scott. The 
cellars of the 
firm are re- 
puted to be 

full of boxes containing coronets and patents 
of nobility. Upon another part of the site 
of Durham House the brothers Adam built, 
in 1768, the region called the Adelphi. 
There, in the centre house of Adelphi- 
terrace, with its wondrous view up and 
down the river, died in 1779 David Garrick. 
Buckingham-street and Vi 1 1 i e r s- s t r eet , 
which lie between the Adelphi and Charing 
Cross Station, carry their history, like so 
many other of the Strand tributaries, 
written in their names. They recall the 
long-vanished glories of Villiers, Duke of 
Buckingham, who lived at York House, 
so called as having been the town palace of 
the Archbishops of York, Wolsey lived 
there for a time ; Bacon was living there 

when he was de- 
graded* The Crown 
granted it to George 
Villiers, Duke of 
Buckingham, by 
whom it was splen- 
didly rebuilt. The 
second Duke sold it 
to pay his debts, 
making it a condi- 
tion that he should 
be commemorated in 
the names of the 
streets placed on the 
site — George, Villiers, 
Duke, and Bucking- 
ham streets, The 
only remaining relic 
of York House is the 
fine water-gate at the 
bottom of Bucking- 
ham-street. Close to 
this water-gate, in a 
house marked by a 
Society of Arts tablet, 
for a short time lived 
Peter the Great ; op- 
posite lived Samuel 
Pepys ; and No. 14 
was occupied by 
Etty. In Villiers- 
street both Evelyn 
and Steele lived ; but 
it is now the haunt 
of anything rather 
than genius, North- 
umberland House, 
the last and best 
known of the river- 
side palaces, which 
was demolished only 
at the end of 1874, 



was not, properly speaking, in the Strand 
at all. It may therefore be sufficient to 
recall that it was built in r6o5, and became 
the home r>f the Percies in 1642. It was 
sold to the Metropolitan Board of Works, 
with great and natural reluctance, for half 
a million of money ; and the famous blue 
lion of the Percies, which for so long stood 
proudly over the building, was removed to 
Si on House. 

The northern side of the Strand is not 
quite so rich in memories as the side which 
faced the river, but its associations with 
Lord Burleigh, that calm, sagacious, and 
untiring statesman, must always make it 
memorable. Burleigh House, the site of 
which is marked by Burleigh and Excttr- 

Diqilized bV V^O05le 

streets, was the house from which he 
governed England with conspicuous 
courage^ devotion! and address. There, 
too, he was visited by Queen Elizabeth. 
According to tradition she wore, on 
that occasion, the notorious pyramidal 
head-dress which she made fashionable, 
and was besought by an esquire in 
attendance to stoop as she entered. 
I ; r your master's sake I will stoop, 
but not for the King of Spain," wa< 
the answer which might have been 
expected from a daughter of Henry 
VIII. Lord Burleigh lived there in 
- i 1 i rable state, spending thirty 
pounds a week, which in Elizabethan 
days was enormous. There, broken 
with work and anxiety, he died in 
When his son was made Earl 
of Exeter he called it Exeter House, 
This historical house was not long in 
railing upon evil days. By the be- 
ginning of the eighteenth century a 
pari "t it hail been demolished, while 
another part was altered and turned 
into shops, the new building being 
christened * 4 Exeter Change/ 1 Nearer 
to our own time the * + Change M be- 
came a kind of arcade, the upper floor 
being used as a wild-beast show. When 
it was il Pidcock's Exhibition 
of Wild Beasts" an imitation 
Beef-eater stood outside, in 
the Strand, inviting the cock- 
ney and his country cousin to 
u walk up." The roaring of 
the animals is said to have 
often frightened horses in the 
Strand. u Exeter Change " 
was the home of u Chunee," 
an elephant as famous in his 
generation— it was more than 
sixty years since — as " Jumbo M in our own, 
bl Chunee," which weighed five tons, and was 
eleven feet high, at last became unmanage- 
able, and was shot by a file of soldiers, who 
fired \ z.2 bullets into his body before killing 
him, His skeleton is still in the Museum 
of the College of Surgeons, in Lincoln Vinu- 
fields. It should be remembered that in 
Exeter-street Dr. Johnson lodged (at a cost 
of 4^d, per day) when he began his struggle 
in London. A little farther east once stood 
Wimbledon Hou-e, built some three cen- 
turies ago by Sir Edward Cecil, Viscount 
Wimbledon, a cadet of the great house 
founded by Lord Burleigh. Stow records 
that the house was burned clown in 
162S, the davOftgtrRll f?ffl^ en tal explosion 




of gunpowder demolished the owner's 
country seat at Wimbledon, Nearly all 
the land hereabouts still belongs to the 
Cecils, Upon a portion of the site of 
Wimbledon House arose the once famous 
" D'Oyley's Warehouse,'' where a French 
refugee sold a variety of silk and woollen 
fabrics, which were quite new to the Eng- 
lish market. He achieved great success, 
and a si D'Gyley n is still as much a part of 
the language as an " antimacassar Tt — that 
abomination of all desolation. The shop 
lasted, at 346, Strand, until some thirty 
years ago. The Lyceum Theatre, which 
also stands upon a piece of the site of 
Exeter House, occupies the spot where 
Madame Tussaud's waxworks were first 
exhibited in 1802. 

With Bedford House, once the home of 
the Ru.sselh, which stood in what is now 
Southampton-street, we exhaust the list 
of the Strand palaces. There is but little 
to say of it, and it was pulled down in 1704, 
Southampton -street— so called after Rachel, 
the heroic wife of Win. Lord Russell, who 

was a daughter of Thomas, Earl of South- 
ampton — Tavistock-street, and some others 
were built upon its site. It was in South- 
ampton-street that formerly stood the 
11 Bedford Head, >+ a famous and fashionable 
eating-house. Pope asks : — 

"When sharp with hunger, scorn you lo be fed, 
Except on pea-chicks at the ' Bedford Head + i '' 

He who loves his London, more especially 
he who loves his Strand, will not forget 
that No. 332, now the office of the Weekly 
Ttm±s, was the scene of Dickens' early 
work in journalism for the Morning 

It would be impossible to find a street 
more entirely representative of the develop- 
ment of England than the long and not 
very lovely Strand. From the days of feudal 
fortresses to those of penny newspapers is a 
far cry ; and of all that lies between it has 
been the witness* If its stones be not historic, 
at least its sites and its memories are ; and 
still it remains, what it ever has been, the 
most characteristic and distinctive of Eng- 
lish highways. 

by Google 

Original from 

A Deadly Dilemma. 

By Grant Allen*. 

HEN Netta Mayne came to 
think it over afterward in her 
own room by herself, she 
couldn't imagine what had 
■^y? ma ^e her silly enough to 
^* quarrel that evening with 
Ugh t red Carnegie* She could only say, in 
a penitent mood, it was always the way like 
that with lovers. Till once they've quar- 
relled a good round quarrel, and afterwards 
solemnly kissed 
and made it all up 
again, things never 
stand on a really 
firm and settled 
basis between 
them. It's a move 
in the game. You 
must thrust in 
tierce before you 
thrust in quarte. 
The Roman play- 
wright spoke the 
truth, after all : a 
lovers' quarrel be- 
gins a fresh chapter 
in the history of 
their love-making. 
It was a summer 
evening, calm, and 
clear, and balmy, 
and Netta and 
Ughtred had strol- 
led out together, 
not without a sus- 
picion at times of 
hand locked in 
hand, on the high 
chalk down that 
rises steep behind 
Holmbury, How 
or why they fell 
out she hardly 
knew. But they 
had been engaged 
already some 
months, without a 
single disagree- 
ment, which of 
course gave Netta 
a natural right to 
quarrel with Ughtred by this time, if she 
thought fit : and as they returned down the 

by Google 

hanging path through the combe where the 
wild orchids grow, she used that right at 
last, out of pure unadulterated feminine 
perversity* The ways of women are won- 
derful ; no mere man can fathom them* 
Something that Ughtred said gave her the 
chance to make a half petulant answer. 
Ughtred very naturally defended himself 
from the imputation of rudeness, and Netta 
retorted. At the end of ten minutes the 

trifle had grown 
apace into as 
pretty a lovers 1 
quarrel as any 
lady novelist could 
wish to describe 
in five chapters. 

Netta had burst 
into perfectly 
orthodox tears, 
refused to be com- 
forted, in the most 
approved fashion, 
declined to accept 
Ughtred's escort 
home, and bidden 
farewell to him 
excitedly for ever 
and ever* 

It was all about 
nothing, to be sure, 
and if two older 
or wiser heads had 
only stood by un- 
seen, to view the 
little comedy, they 
would sagely have 
remarked to one 
another, with a 
shake, that before 
twenty- four hours 
were out the pair 
would be rushing 
into one another's 
arms with mutual 
apologies and 
mutual f o r g i v e~ 
ness. But Netta 
Mayne and Ugh- 
tred Carnegie 
were still at the 
age when one takes love seriously — one 
does before thirty — and so they turned away 

Original from 


Wj if/?- 




he couldn't 
her (l Miss 
ik Netta " to 

along different paths at the bottom of the 
combe, in the firm belief that love's young 
dream was shattered, and that henceforth 
they two were nothing more than the 
merest acquaintances to one another. 

" Good-bye, Mr. Carnegie/' Netta faltered 
out, as in obedience to her wishes, though 
much against his own will, Ughtred turned 
slowly and remorsefully down the footpath 
to the right, in the direction of the railway. 

" Good-bye, Netta," Ughtred answered, 
half choking. Even at that moment of 
parting (for ever — or a day), 
find it in his heart to call 
Mayne ,? who had so long been 

He waved his hand and turned along the 
Uot-path, looking back many times to see 
Netta still sitting inconsolable where he had 
left her, on the stile that led from the combe 
into the Four -acre meadow, Both paths, 
to right and left, led back to Holmbury over 
the open field, but they diverged rapidly, 
and crossed the railway track by separate 
gates , and five hundred yards from each 
other. A turn in the path, at which 
Ughtred lingered long, hid Netta at last 
from his sight- He paused and hesitated. 
It was growing late, though an hour of 
summer twilight still remained. He couldn't 
bear to leave Netta thus alone in the 
field. She wouldn't allow him to see her 
home, to be sure, and that being so, he was 
too much a gentleman to force himself upon 
her. But he was too much a man, too, to 
let her find her way back so late entirely 
by herself* Unseen himself, he must still 
watch over her. Against her will, he must 
still protect her, He would go on to the 
railway, and there sit by the side of the 
line, under cover of the hedge, till Netta 
crossed by the other path. Then he'd walk 
quietly along the six-foot w r ay to the gate 
she had passed through, and follow her. 
unperceived, at a distance along the lane, 
till he saw her back to Holmbury. 
Whether she wished it or not he could 
never leave her. 

He looked about for a seat. One lay 
most handy. By the side of the line the 
Government engineers had been at work 
that day, repairing the telegraph system, 
They had taken down half a dozen mould- 
ering old posts, and set up new ones in 
their place— tall, clean, and shiny. One of 
the old posts still lay at full length on 
the ground by the gate, just as the men had 
left it at the end of their day's work. At 
the point where the footpath cut the line, 

Digitized by CaOOg 

was a level crossing, and there Ughtred sat 
down on the fallen post by the side, half- 
concealed from view by a tall clump of 
willow-herb, waiting patiently for Netta's 
coming. How he listened for that light 
footfall. His heart was full, indeed, of gall 
and bitterness. He loved her so dearly, 
and she had treated him so ill. Who w T ould 
ever have believed that Netta, his Netta, 
would have thrown him* over like that for 


such a ridiculous trifle? Who, indeed? 
and least of all Netta herself, sitting alone 
on the stile with her pretty face bowed 
deep in her hands, and her poor heart 
wondering how Ughtred, her Ughtred, 
could so easily desert hen In such strange 
ways is the feminine variety of the human 
heart constructed. To be sure, she had of 
course dismissed him in the most per- 
emptory fashion, declaring with all the vows 
propriety permits to the British maiden, that 
she needed no escort of any sort home, and 




that she would ten thousand times rather 
go alone than have him accompany her. 
But, of course, also, she didn't mean it. 
What woman does ? She counted upon 
a prompt and unconditional surrender. 
Ughtred would go to the corner, as in 
duty bound, and then come back to her, 
with profuse expressions of penitence for the 
wrong he had never done, to make it all up 
again in the orthodox fashion- She never 
intended the real tragedy that was so soon 
to follow. She was only playing with her 
victim — only trying, woman -like, her power 
over Ughtred, 

So she sat there still, and cried and 
cried on, minute after minute, in an 
ecstasy of misery, till the sunset began to 
glow deeper red in the western sky, and the 
bell to ring the curfew in Holmbury Tower. 
Then it dawned upon her slowly, with a 
shock of surprise, that after all — incredible ! 
impossible ! — Ughtred had positively taken 
her at her word, and wasn't coming back at 
all to-night to her. 

At that, the usual womanly terror seized 
upon her souk Her heart turned faint. 
This was too terrible. Great heavens, 
what had she done? Had she tried Ugh- 
tred too far, and had he really gone ? Was 
he never going to return to her at all ? 
Had he said gond-bye in earnest to her for 
ever and ever ? 

Terrified at the thought, and weak wilh 
crying, she rose and straggled down the 
narrow footpath toward the further crossing. 
It was getting late now, and Netta by this 
time was really frightened, She wisVn-d 
with all her heart she hadn't sent away 
Ughtred— if it were only for the 
tramps : a man is such a com- 
fort. And then there was that 
dreadful dog at Milton Court to 
pass. And Ughtred was gone, 
and all the world was desolate. 

Thinking these things in a 
tumult of fear to herself she 
staggered along the path, feeling 
tired at heart, and positively ill 
with remorse and terror, The 
colour had faded now out of her 
pretty red cheeks. Her eyes 
were dim and swollen with cry- 
ing. She was almost half glad 
Ughtred couldn't see her just 
then, she was such a fright with 
her long spel 1 of brooding. Even 
her bright print dress and her 
straw hat with the poppies in it, 
couldn't redeem, she felt sure, 

ciilized by Google 

her pallor and her wretchedness. But Ugh- 
tred was gone, and the world was a 
wilderness. And he would never come 
back, and the dog at Milton Court was so 

As she walked , or rather groped her way 
(for she couldn't see for crying) down the 
path by the hedge, at every step she grew 
fainter and fainter, Ughtred was gone ; 
and the world was a blank ; and there were 
tramps and dogs ; and it was getting dark ; 
and she loved him so much ; and Mamma 
would be so angry, 

Turning over which thoughts with a 
whirling brain, for she was but a girl after 
all, she reached the little swing-gate that 
led to the railway, and pushed it aside with 
vague numbed hands, and stood gating 
vacantly at the long curved line ill front of 




Suddenly, a noise rose sharp in the 
behind her. It was only a colt, to be 
disturbed by her approach, dashing w 
across his paddock, as is the way 
young horseflesh, 
But to Netta it came 
as an indefinite 
terror, magnified ten 
thousand-fold by her 
excited feelings. She 
made a frenzied dash 
fnr the fiber -ill'.' 1 it 
the railway. What 
it was she knew not; 
but it was, or might 
be, anything, every- 
thing — mad bulk 




drunken men, footpads, vagabonds, mur- 

Oh, how could Ughtred ever have taken 
her at her word, and left her like this, alone, 
and in the evening? It was cruel, it was 
wicked of him ; she hated to be disloyal, 
and yet she felt in her heart it was almost 

As she rushed along wildly, at the top of 
her speed, her little foot caught on the first 
rail. Before she knew what had happened, 
she had fallen with her body right across 
the line. Faint and terrified already, with 
a thousand vague alarms, the sudden shock 
stunned and disabled her. Mad bull or 
drunken man, they might do as they liked 
now. She was bruised and shaken. She 
had no thought left to rise or recover her- 
self. Her eyes closed heavily. She lost 
consciousness at once. It was a terrible 
position. She had fainted on the line, with 
the force of the situation. 

Digitized by GOOQIC 

field As for Ughtred, from his seat on the 

sure, telegraph post on the side of the line five 

ildly hundred yards farther up, he saw her pause 

with by the gate, then dash across the road, 

then stuni He and nip, then fall 

heavily forward, His heart came up 

into his mouth at once at the sight. 

Oh, thank heaven he had waited. 

Thank heaven he was near. She had 

fallen across the line, and a train 

might come along before she could rise 

up again. She seemed hurt, too. In 

a frenzy of suspense he darted forward 

to save her. 

It took but a second for him to 

realise that she had fallen, and was 

seriously hurt, but in the course of 

that second, even as he realised it all, 

another and more pressing terror 

seized him. 

Hark ! what was that ? He listened 

and thrilled. Oh no, too terrible. Yes, yes, 

it must be— the railway, the railway ! He 

knew it. He felt it; Along the up line, on 

which Nctta was lying, he heard behind 

him — oh, unmistakable, unthinkable, the 

fierce whirr of the express dashing madly 

down upon him* Great heavens, what 

could he do ? The train was coming, the 

train was almost this moment upon them. 

Before he could have time to rush wildly 

forward and snatch Netta from where she 

lay, full in its path, a helpless weight, it 

would have swept past him resist lessly, and 

borne down upon her like lightning. 

The express was coming — to crush Netta 

to pieces. 

In these awful moments men don't think : 

they don't reason ; they don't even realise 

what their action means ; they simply act, 

and act instinctively. Ughtred felt in a 

second, without even consciously feeling it, 

so to speak, that any attempt to reach 

Netta now before that devouring engine 

had burst upon her at full speed would be 

absolutely hopeless. 

His one chance lay in stopping the train 

somehow. How T , or where, or with what, 

he cared not. His own body would do it 

if nothing else came. Only stop it, stop it. 

He didn't think of it at all that moment as 

a set of carriages containing a precious 

freight of human lives. He thought of it 

only as a horrible, cruel, devouring creature, 

rushing headway on at full speed to Netta's 

destruction. It was a senseless wild beast, 

to be combated at all hazards. It was 

a hideous, ruthless, relentless thing, to be 

cheeked in^Jts .mad career in no matter 




what fashion* All he knew, indeed, was 
that Netta, his Netta, lay helpless on the 
track, and that the engine, like some mad- 
man, puffing and snorting with wild glee 
and savage exultation, was hastening 
forward with fierce strides to crush and 
mangle her. 

At any risk he must stop it — with any- 

As he gazed around him, horror-struck, 
with blank inquiring stare, and with this 
one fixed idea possessing his whole soul, 
Ughtred's eye happened to fall upon the 
dismantled telegraph post, on which but 
one minute before he had been sitting, 
The sight inspired him. Ha T ha ! a glorious 
chance. He could lift it on the line. He 
could lay it across the rails, He could 
turn it round into place. He could upset 
the train ! He could place it in the way 
of that murderous engine. 

No sooner thought than done. With 
the wild energy of despair, the young man 
lifted the small end of the ponderous post 
bodily up in his arms, and twisting it on 
the big base as on an earth -fast pivot, 
managed, by main force and with a violent 
effort, to lay it at last full in front of the 
advancing locomotive. How he did it 
he never rightly knew himself, for the 
weight of the great balk was simply 
enormous. But horror and love, and 
the awful idea that Netta 's life was at 
stake, seemed to supply him at ones 
with unwonted energy. He lifted it in 
his arms as he would have lifted a ^ 
child, and straining in every limb 
stretched it at last full across both 
rails, a formidable obstacle before the 
approaching engine. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! he had succeeded 
now. It would throw the train nil ih> 
line — and Netta would be saved for 

To think and do all this under 
the spur of the circumstances took 
Ughtred something less than 
twenty seconds. In a great crisis 
men live rapidly. It was quick as 
thought. And at the end of 
it all, he saw the big log laid 
right across the line with 
infinite satisfaction. Such a 
splendid obstacle that — so 
round and heavy ! It must 
throw the train clean off the 
metals ! It must produce a 
fine first-class catastrophe, 

As he thought 

aloud, a sharp curve brought the train 
round the corner close to where he stood, 
great drops of sweat now oozing clammily 
from every pore with his exertion. He 
looked at it languidly, with some vague, 
dim sense of a duty accomplished, and a 
great work well done for Netta and 
humanity. There would be a real live 
accident in a moment now — a splendid 
accident — a first-rate catastrophe ! 

Great heavens ! An accident ! 

And then, with a sudden burst of inspira- 
tion, the other side of the transaction flashed 
in one electric spark upon Ughtred 7 s brain. 
Why — this— was murder ! There were 
people in that train — innocent human 
beings, men and women like himself, who 
would next minute be wrecked and mangled 
corpses, or writhing forms, on the track 
before him ! He was guilty of a Crime- 
an awful crime. He was trying to produce 
a terrible, ghastly, bloody railway accident ! 

Till that 
second, the 
idea ha d 
never even 
so much as 
occurred to 

it, half 


1 ri wmrin throw tD*FiwVB WrOTW une." 




him. In the first wil ! flush of horror at 
Netta's situation, he had thought of nothing 
except how best to save her. He had 
regarded the engine only as a hateful, 
cruel, destruc- 
tive living being, 
He had f r- 
gotten the pas- 
sengers t t h e 
stoker, the 
officials. He had 
been conscious 
only of Netta 
and of that awful 
thing, breathing 
flame and steam, 
that was rushing 
on to destroy 
her. For ano- 
ther indivisible 
second of lime 
Ughtred Car- 
negie's soul was 
the theatre of a 
terrible and ap- 
palling struggle, What on earth was he to 
do? Which of the two was he to sacrifice? 
Should it be murder or treachery ? Must 
he wreck the train or let it mangle Netta ? 
The sweat stood upon his brow in great 
clammy drops, at that dread dilemma. It 
was an awful question for any man to 
solve. He shrank aghast before that deadly 

They were innocent, to be sure, the 
people in that train, They were unknown 
men, women, and children. They had the 
same right to their lives as Netta herself, 
It was crime, sheer crime, thus to seek to 
destroy them. But still — what would you 
have ? Netta lay there all helpless on the line 
— his own dear Netta. And she had parted 
from him in anger but half an hour since. 
Could he leave her to be destroyed by that 
hideous, snorting, puffing thing ? Has not 
any man the right to try and save the lives 
he loves best, no matter at what risk or 
peril to others ? He asked himself this 
question, too, vaguely, instinctively, with 
the rapid haste of a life-and-death struggle, 
asked himself with horror, for he had no 
strength left now to do one thing or the other 
— to remove the obstacle from the place 
where he had laid it or to warn the driver. 
One second alone remained and then all 
would be over. On it came, roaring, 
flaring, glaring, with its great bulls' eyes now 
peering red round the corner — a terrible, 
fiery dragon, resistless, unconscious, bearing 


down in mad glee upon the pole — or Netta. 
Which of the two should it be — the pole 
or Netta ? 

And still he waited ; and still he tempor- 

ised. What, 
what could he 
do? Oh heaven ! 
be merciful- 
Even as the 
engine swept, 
snorting and 
puffing steam 
round the cor- 
ner t he doubted 
yet — he doubted 
and temporised* 
He reasoned 
with his own 
conscience in 
the quick short- 
hand of thought. 
So far as intent 
was concerned 
he was guiltless. 
Tt wouldn't be 
a murder of malice prepense. When he 
laid that log there in the way of the train, 
he never believed— nay, never even knew 
— it was a train with "a living freight of 
men and women he was trying to imperil. 
He felt to it merely as a mad engine un- 
attached. He realised only Netta's pressing 
danger. Was he bound now to undo what 
he had innocently done — and leave Netta 
to perish ? Must he take away the post 
and be Netta's murderer ? 

It was a cruel dilemma for any man to 
have to face. If he had half an hour to 
debate and decide, now, he might perhaps 
have seen his way a little clearer, But 
with that hideous thing actually rushing 
red and wrathful on his sight — why — he 
clapped his hands to his ears. It was 
too much for him- — too much for him. 

And yet he must face it, and act, or 
remain passive, one way or the other. 
With a desperate effort he made up his 
mind at last just as the train burst upon him, 
and all was over. 

He made up his mind and acted accord- 

As the engine turned the corner, the 
driver, looking ahead in the clear evening 
light, saw something in front that made 
him start with sudden horror and alarm, 
A telegraph pole lay stretched at full 
length, and a man, unknown, stood agonised 
by its side, stooping down as he thought to 

taLd fjfflttM'f Bf i&m-™* no time lcft 




to stop her now; no time to aveit the 
threatened catastrophe. All the driver 
could do in his haste was to put the brake 
on hard and endeavour to lessen the force 
of the inevitable concussion. But even as 
he looked and wondered at the sight, 
putting on the brake, mean while, with all 
his might and main, he saw the man in 
front perform, to his surprise, a heroic 
action. Rushing full upon the line, straight 
before the very lights of the advancing 
train, the man unknown lifted up the 
pole by main force, and brandishing its end, 
as it were, wildly in the driver's face, hurled 
the huge balk back with a terrible effort to 
the side of the railway. It fell with a crash, 
and the man fell with it. There was a 
second's pause, while the driver's heart 
stood still with terror. Then a jar — a 
thud — a deep scratch into the soil. A 
wheel was off the line ; they had met with 
an accident. 

For a moment or two the driver only 
knew that he was shaken and hurt, but not 
severely. The engine had left the track, 
and the carriages lay behind slightly 
shattered. He -, 

could see how it 
happened. Part 
of the pole in 
falling had re- 
bounded on to 
the line. The 
base of the 
great timber 
had struck the near-side 
wheel, and sent it off the 
track in a vain effort to 
surmount it. But the 
brake had already slack- 
ened the pace and broken 
the force of the shock, so 
the visible damage was 
very inconsiderable. They 
look along the carriages and find 
out who was hurt. And above all 
things, what had become of the 
man who had so nobly rescued 
them ? For the very last thing 
tile engine-driver had seen of 
Ughtred as the train stopped shcrt 
was that the man who flung the 
pole from the track before the 
advancing engine was knocked 
down by its approach , while the 
train to all appearance passed 
bodily over him. For good or evil, 
Ughtred had made his decision at last at 
the ribk of his own life. As the train 

dashed on, with its living freight aboard, 
his native instinct of preserving life got the 
better of him in spite of himself- He 
couldn't let those innocent souls die by his 

own act though if he removed the pnle, 

and Netta was killed, he didn't know him- 
self how he could ever outlive it. 

He prayed with all his heart that the 
train might kill him. 

The guard and the driver ran hastily 
along the train. Nobody was hurt, though 
many were shaken or slightly bruised. 
Even the carriages had escaped with a few 
small cracks. The Holmbury smash was 
nothing very serious. 

But the man with the pole ? Their pre- 
server, their friend*. Where was he all 
this time ? What on earth had become of 
him ? 

They looked along the line. They 
searched the track in vain. He had disap- 
peared as if by magic. Not a trace could 
be found of him, 

After looking long and uselessly, again 
and again, the guard and the driver both 
gave it up. They had seen the man dis- 
tinctly—not a doubt 
about that — and so had 
several of the passen- 
gers as well. But no 
sign of blood was to be 
discovered along the 
t rack, The mysterious 
being who, as they all 
believed, risked his own 
life to save theirs, had 


vanished a- he had conn.-, one nii^ht almost 
say by a miracle. 

And indeiHfl«iW 'filter of fact, when 




Ughtred Carnegie fell on the track before 
the advancing engine, he thought for a 
moment it was all up with him + He was 
glad of that y too ; for he had murdered Netta, 
He had saved the train j but he had murdered 
Netta. It would dash on, now, unresisted, 
and crush his darling to death* It was 
better he should die t having murdered 
Netta, So he closed his eyes tight and 
waited for it to kill him. 

But the train passed on, jarring and 
scraping, partly with the action of the brake, 
though partly, too, with the wheel digging 
into the ground at the side ; it passed on 
and went over him altogether, coming, as it 
did so, to a sudden standstill. As it stopped, 
a fierce joy rose uppermost in Ughtred's 
soul. Thank heaven, all was well He 
breathed once more easily. He had fallen 
on his back across the sleepers in the middle 
of the track. It was not really the train 
that had knocked him down at ali, but the 
recoil of the telegraph post. The engine 
and carriages had gone over him safely. 
He wasn't seriously hurt. He was only 
bruised, and sprained, and jarred, and 

Rising up behind the train as it slackened, 
he ran hastily along on the offside, towards 
where Netta lay still unconscious on the line 
in front of it. Nobody saw him run past ; 
and no wonder either, for every eye was 
turned toward the near side and the ob- 
struction, A person running fast by the 
opposite windows was very little likely to 
attract attention at such a moment. Every 
step pained him, to be sure, for he was 
bruised and stiff; but he 
ran on none the less till 
he came up at last to 
where Netta lay. There, 
he bent over her eagerly. 
Netta raised her head, 
opened her eyes, and 
looked* In a moment the 
vague sense of a terrible 
catastrophe averted came 
somehow- over her. She 

flung her arms round his neck. M Oh, 
Ughtred, you've come back ! '' she cried in 
a torrent of emotion, 

" Yes, darling," Ughtred answered, his 
voice half choked with tear*. u I've come 
back to you now, for ever and ever.- 1 

He lifted her in his arms, and carried her 
some little way off up the left-hand path. 
His heart was very full, Twas a terrible 
moment. For as yet he hardly knew what 
harm he might have done by his fatal act. 
He only knew he had tried his best to undo 
the wrong he had half unconsciously 
wrought ; and if the worst came, he would 
give himself up now like a man to offended 

But the worst did not come. Blind fate 
had been merciful Next day the papers 
were full of the accident to the Great 
Southern Express ; equally divided between 
denunciation of the miscreant who had 
placed the obstruction in the way of the 
train, and admiration for the heroic, but 
unrecognisable stranger who had rescued 
from death so many helpless passengers at 
so imminent a risk to his own life or safety. 
Only Ughtred knew that the two were one 
and the same person. And when Ughtred 
found out how little harm had been done 
by his infatuated act — an act he felt he 
could never possibly explain in its true 
light to any other person— he thought it 
wisest on the whole to lay no claim to either 
the praise or the censure. The world could 
never be made to understand the terrible 
dilemma in which he was placed— the one- 
sided way in which the problem at first pre- 
sented itself to him— the 
deadly struggle through 
which he had passed be- 
fore he could make up his 
mind, at the risk of Netta- s 
life, to remove the ob- 
stacle. Only Netta under- 
stood \ and even Netta 
herself knew no more 
than this, that Ughtred 
had risked his own life to 
save her. 

by Google 

Original from 

The Metropolitan Fire Brigade. 


IRE ! Fire ! " 

This startling cry aroused 
me one night as I was putting 
l he finishing touches to sonic 
literary work. Rushing, pen 
in hand, to I he window, I 
could just perceive a dull red glare in the 
northern sky, which , even as I gazed, became 
more vivid, and threw some chimneys near 
at hand into strong relief. A fire undoubt- 
edly, and not far distant ! 

The street, usually so quiet at night, had 
suddenly awakened. The alarm which had 
reached me had aroused my neighbours on 
each side of the way, and every house was 


"well alight M in a short space of time. 
Doors were flung open, windows raised, 
white forms were visible at the casements, 
and curiosity was rife. Many men and some 
venturesome women quitted their houses, 
and proceeded in the direction of the glare, 
which was momentarily increasing, the glow 
nn the clouds waxing and waning according 
as the flames shot up or temporarily died 

" Where is it ? " people ask in a quick, 
panting way, as they hurry along. No one 
can say for certain. But ju*t as we think it 
rnust be in Westminster, we come in sight 

by Google 

of a huge column of smoke, and turning a 
corner are within view of the emporium — 
a tall, six-storied block, stored with inflam- 
mable commodities, and blazing fiercely. 
Next door, or rather the next warehouse, 
is n^t yet affected. 

The scene is weird and striking ; the 
intense glare, the shooting flames which 
dart viciously out and upwards, the white 
and red faces of the crowd kept back by the 
busy police, the puff and clank of the en- 
gines, the rushing and hissing of the water, 
the roar of the fire, and the columns of 
smoke which in heavy sulky masses hung 
gloating over the blazing building. The 
bright helmets of the firemen are glinting 
everywhere, close to the already tottering 
wall, on the summit of the adjacent build- 
ings, which are already smoking, Lost on 
ladders, amid smoke, they pour a torrent of 
water on the burning and seething premises. 
Above all the monotonous "puff, puff" of 
the steamer is heai d, and a buzz of admira- 
tion ascends from the attentive, silent crowd. 

Suddenly arises a yell— a wild, unearthly 
cry, which almost makes one's blood run cold 
even in that atmosphere. A tremor seizes 
us as a female form appears at an upper 
window, framed in flame, curtained with 
smoke and noxious fumes. 

1L Save her ! Save her ! " 

The crowd sways and surges ; women 
scream ; strong men clench their hands and 
swear— Heaven only knows why. But be- 
fore the police have headed back the people 
the escape is on the spot, two men are on 
it, one outstrips his mate, and darting up 
the ladder, leaps into the open window. 

He is swallowed up in a moment — lost to 
our sight. Will he ever return out of that 
fiery furnace ? Yes, here he is, bearing a 
senseless female form, which he passes out 
to his mate, who is calmly watching his 
progress, though the ladder is in imminent 
danger. Quick ! The flames approach ! 

The man on the ladder does not wait as 
his mate again disappears and emerges with 
a child about fourteen. Carrying this 
burthrn , a-ilv, hr lL-icthU tin ladder. Tin: 
first man is already flying down the escape, 
head-first, holding the woman's dress round 
her feet. The others, rescuer and rescued, 
follow. The ladder is withdrawn, burning. 

Original from 




A mighty cheer arises 'mid the smoke. 
Two lives saved ! The fire is being mas- 
tered. More engines gallop up, ''The 
Captain Jl is on the spot, too. The Brigade 
is victorious. 

In the early morning hour, as I strolled 
home deep in thought, I determined to see 
these men who nightly risk their lives and 
stalwart limbs for the benefit and preserva- 
tion of helpless fire -scorched people. Who 
are these men who go literally through fire 
and water to assist and save their fellow 
creatures, strangers to them — unknown, 
save in that they require help and succour ? 

I determined there and then to see these 
brave fellows in their daily work, or leisure 
in their homes, amid all the surroundings of 
fheir noble calling. I went accompanied 
by an artistic friend, to whose efforts the 
illustrations which accompany this record 
are due. 

Emerging from Queen -street, we find 
ourselves upon South wark Bridge, and we 
at once plunge into a flood of memories 
of old friends who come, invisibly, to 
accompany us on our pilgrimage to old 
Winchester House, now the head -quarters 
of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade, in the 
South wark Bridge-road. On the bridge- 
once a " tolled " struc- 
ture known as the 
Iron Bridge — we find 
44 Little Dorrit" her- 
self, and her suitor, 
young John Chivery, 
in all his brave attire ; 
the young aspirant is 
downhearted at the 
decided refusal of Miss 
Amy to marry him, 
as they pace the then 
almost unfrequented 
bridge. Their ghosts 
cross it in our com- 
pany, with Clennan 

The whole neighbourhood is redolent of 
Dickens. From a spot close by the head 
office we can see the buildings which have 
been erected on the site of the King's 
Bench Prison, where Mr, Micawber waited 
for something to turn up, and where 
Copperfield lost his box and money. The 
site of the former ki haven of domestic tran- 
quillity and peace of mind," as Micawber 
styled it, is indicated to us by Mr, Harman 
— quite a suitable name in such a connec- 
tion with Dickens — by whom we are cour- 
teously and pleasantly received in the office 
of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade. 

Our credentials being in order there is 
no difficulty experienced in our reception, 
Nothing can exceed the civility and polite- 
ness of the officials, and of the rank and file 
of the Brigade. Fine, active, cheerful 
fellows, all sailors, these firemen are a 
credit to their organisation and to London. 
The Superintendent hands us over to a 
bright young fellow, who is waiting his 
promotion — we hope he has reached it, if 
not a death vacancy — and he takes us in 
charge kindly. 

Standing "in the very entrance T we had 
already remarked two engines- The folding, 
automatic doors are closed in front of these 
machines. One, a steamer, is be- 
ing nursed by means of a gas tube 
to keep the fire-box warm. When 
the fire-call rings there is no time 
to begin to get up steam. The 
well-heated interior soon acts in 
response to the quickly lighted fire 
as the engine starts, and by the 
time our steamer reaches its des- 
tination steam is generated* A 
spare steamer is close at hand. 

us t 

till we 


the Union -road, once 
known as Horsemon- 
ger-lane, where young 
John's ghost quits us 
to meditate in the 
back yard of Mr. 
Chivery 's premises, 
and become that 
11 broken-down ruin," 
catching cold beneath 
the family washing, 
which he feared 




encihbs arwufn *|p.f ro n 



Very bright and clean is the machine, 
which in a way puts its useful ally, the 
" manual," in the shade ; though at present 
the latter kind are more numerous, in the 
proportion of seventy-eight to forty-eight. 
Turning from the engines, we notice a row 
of burnished helmets hanging over tunics, 
and below these, great knee-boots, which 
are so familiar to the citizen. When the 
alarm is rung, these are donned rapidly ; 
but we opine the gates will occupy some 
time in the opening. 

Our guide smiles, and points out two 
ropes hanging immediately over the driving 
seat of each engine. 

44 When the engine is ready the coach- 
man pulls the rope, and the gates open of 
their own accord, you may say. See 
here ! " 

He turns to the office entrance, where 
two ropes are hanging side by side. A pull 
on each, and the doors leading to the back- 
yard open and unfold themselves. The 
catch drops deftly into an aperture made to 
receive it, and the portals are thus kept 
open. About a second and a half is occu- 
pied in this manoeuvre. 

We consider it unfortunate that we shall 
not see a " turn out," as alarms by day are 
not usual. The Superintendent looks 
quizzical, but says nothing then. He gives 
instructions to our guide to show us all we 
want to see, and in this spirit we examine 
the instrument room close at hand. 

Here are fixed a number of telephonic 
apparatus, labelled with the names of the 
stations : — Manchester-square, Clerkenwell, 
Whitechapel, and so on, five in number, 
known by the Brigade as Superintendents 1 
Stations, A, B, C, D, E Districts. By these 
means immediate communication can be 
obtained with any portion of the Metropolis, 
and the condition and requirements of the 
fires reported. There is also a frame in the 
outer office which bears a number of elec- 
tric bells, which can summon the head of 
any department, or demand the presence of 
any officer instantly. 

It is extraordinary to see the quiet way 
in which the work is performed, the ease 
and freedom of the men, and the strict 
observance of discipline withal. Very few 
men are visible as we pass on to the repair- 
ing shops. (Illustration, p. 2Q.) Here the 
engines are repaired and inspected. There 
are eleven steamers in the shed, some 
available for service, and so designated. If 
an outlying station require a steamer in 
substitution for its own, here is one ready. 

Digitized by tj i 

The boilers are examined every six months, 
and tested by water-pressure up to 180 lbs. 
on the square inch, in order to sustain 
safely the steam pressure up to 120 lbs., 
when it " blows off." , 

Passing down the shed we notice the 
men — all Brigade men — employed at their 
various tasks in the forge or carpenters' 
shop. Thus it will be perceived that the 
head-quarters enclose many different 
artizans, and is self-contained. The men 
were lifting a boiler when we were present, 
and our artist "caught them in the act." 

Close to the entrance is a high " shoot " 
in which hang pendant numerous ropes and 
many lengths of drying hose. The im- 
pression experienced when standing under- 
neath, and gazing upwards, is something 
like the feeling one would have while 
gazing up at the tops of the trees in a pine 
wood. There is a sense of vastness in this 
narrow lofty brick enclosure, which is some 
70 ft. high. The hose is doubled in its 
length of 100 ft., and then it drains dry, 
for the moisture is apt to conceal itself in 
the rubber lining, and in the nozzles and 
head -screws of the hoses. 

No precaution is neglected, no point is 
missed. Vigilant eyes are everywhere ; 
bright responsive faces and ready hands are 
continually in evidence, but unobtrusively. 

Turning from the repairing shops we 
proceed to the stables, where we find things 
in the normal condition of preparedness. 
" Be ready " is evidently the watchword of 
the Brigade. Ready, aye ready ! Neat- 
ness and cleanliness are here scrupulously 
regarded. Tidiness is the feature of the 
stables. A pair of horses on either side are 
standing, faces outward, in their stalls. 
Four handsome, well-groomed, lithe animals 
they look ; and as we enter they regard us 
with considerable curiosity, a view which we 

Round each horse's neck is suspended his 
collar. A weight let into the woodwork 01 
the stall holds the harness by means of a 
lanyard and swivel. When tne alarm rings 
the collar is dropped, and in "half a 
second " the animals, traces and splinter- 
bar hanging on their sleek backs and sides, 
are trotted out and harnessed. Again we 
express our regret that no kind householder 
will set fire to his tenement, that no nice 
children will play with matches or candle 
this fine morning, and let us " see every- 
thing," like Charles Middlewick. 

Once more our guide smiles, and passes 
on through the forsgc and harness-rooms, 




where we also find a coachman's room for 
reading, and waiting on duty. 

It is now nearly mid-day, and we turn to 
see the fire-drill of the recruits, who, clad in 
slops, practise all the necessary and requisite 
work which alone can render them fit for 
the business. They are thus employed from 
nine o'clock to mid-day, and from two till four 
p.m. During these five hours the squads are 
exercised in the art of putting the ladders 
and escapes on the wagons which convey 
them to the scene of the fire. The recruit 
must learn how to raise the heavy machine 
by his own efforts, by means of a rope rove 
through a ring-bolt* We had an oppor- 
tunity to see the recruits raising the machine 
together to get it off the w^agon. The men 
are practised in leaping up when the 
vehicle is starting off at a great pace after ♦ 
the wheels are manned to give an 
impetus to the vehicle which car- 
ries such a burthen. 

But the "rescue drill 11 is still 
more interesting, and this ex- 
hibited the strength and dexterity 
of the firemen in a surprising 
manner. It is striking to notice 
the different ways in which the 
rescue of the male and female 
sexes is accomplished. The sure- 
footed fireman rapidly ascends the 
ladder, and leaps upon the parapet. 
The escape is furnished with a 
ladder which projects beyond the 
net, At the bottom a canvas 

sheet or "hammock" is suspended, 
so that the rescued shall not suffer 
from contusions, which formerly were 
frequent in consequence of the rapid 

One fireman passes into a garret 
window and emerges with a man. 
He makes no pause on the parapet, 
where already, heedless of glare and 
smoke and the ri^k of a fall, he has 
raised on his shoulders the heavy, 
apparently inanimate, form, and grasp- 
ing the man round one leg, his arm inside 
the thigh, he carries him steadily, like a 
sack of coals, down the ladder as far as the 
■ jpening of the bag-net of the escape. 

Here he halts, and puts the man into the 
net, perhaps head downwards, he himself 
following in the same position. The man 
rescued is then let down easily, the fireman 
using his elbows and knees as " breaks T1 to 
arrest their progress. So the individual is 
assisted down, and not permitted to go un- 

The rescue of a female is accomplished in 
a slightly different manner. She is also 
carried to the ladder, but the rescuer grasps 
both her tegs below the knees, and when he 
reaches the net he places her head down- 
wards and grasps her dress tightly round her 
ankles, holding her thus in a straight posi- 
tion. Thus her dress is undisturbed, and 
she is received in the folds of the friendly 
canvas underneath, in safety. 

'['here is also a u jumping drill " from the 
windows into a sheet held by I he other 
men. This course of instruction is not so 

«-ux i:w;av£s 









™ ;*- 



1 1 V ~ 7?P 


If ^ 






nccnriTS drilling* 

popular, for it seems somewhat of a trial 
to leap in cold blood into a sheet some 
twenty feet below. The feat of lifting 
a grown man (weighing perhaps sixteen 


J by Kj*Q 

stone) from the parapet to the right 
knee, then, by grasping the waist, getting 
the limp arm around his neck, and then, 
holding the leg, to rise up and walk on 
a narrow ledge amid all the terrible sur- 
roundings of a fire, requires much nerve 
and strength- Frequently we hear of deaths 
and injuries to men of the Brigade, but no 
landsman can attain proficiency in even 
double the time that sailors do — the latter 
are so accustomed to giddy heights, and to 
precarious footing. 

Moreover, the belt, to which a swivel 
hook is attached, is a safeguard of which 
Jack takes every advantage. This equip- 
ment enables him to hang on to a ladder 
and swing about like a monkey, having 
both hands free to save or assist a victim or 
the fire or one of his mates. There is a 
death-roll of about five men annually, on 
the average, and many are injured, if not 
fatally yet very seriously, by falling walls and 
such accidents. Drenched and soaked, the 
men have a terrible time 
of it at a fire, and they 
richly deserve the leisure 
th^'v obtain, 

This leisure is, however, 
not so pleasant as might 
be imagined, for the fire- 
man is always on duty ; 
and, no matter how he 
is occupied, he may be 
wanted on the englMj and 

'■■■riiiTWftt flS8iTi 



Having inspected the American ladder in 
its shed, we glanced at the stores and pattern 
rooms, and at the firemen's quarters* Here 
the men live with their wives and families, 
if they are married, and in single blessed- 
ness, if Love the Pilgrim has not come 
their way. Old Winchester House, fes- 
tooned with creepers, was never put to more 
worthy use than in sheltering these retiring 
heroes, who daily risk their lives uncom- 
plainingly. Somewhat different now the 
scenes from those when the stately palace 
of Cardinal Beaufort extended to the river, 
and the spacious park was stocked with 
game and venison* As our conductor seeks 
a certain key wc muse on the old time, the 
feasts and pageants held here, the wedding 
banquet of James and Jane Somerset, when 
the old walls and precincts rang with merry 
cheer; Turning, we can almost fancy we 
perceive the restless Wyatt quitting the 

pad we see all that remains of the brave 
Fireman Jacobs, who perished at the con- 
flagration in Wandsworth in September, 

It was on the 12th of that month that 
the premises occupied by Messrs. Burroughs 
and Wellcome, manufacturing chemists, 
took fire. Engineer Howard and two third- 
class firemen, Jacobs and Ash by, ran the 
hose up the staircase at the end of the build- 
ing* The two latter men remained, bui 
their retreat was suddenly cut off, and exit 
was. sought by the window. The united 
ladder- lengths would not reach the upper 
story, and a builder's ladder came only 
within a few feet of the casement at which 
the brave men were standing calling for a 

Ash by, whose helmet is still preserved, 
was fortunately able to squeeze himself 
through the bars, drop on the high ladder, 

■" ■ / . 


postern-gate, leaving fragments of the 
mutilated books of Winchester's proud 
bishop. These past scenes vanish as our 
guide returns and beckons us to other sights. 

Of these, by far the most melancholy in- 
terest is awakened by the relics of those 
brave firemen who have died, or have been 
seriously injured, on duty. In a cupboard, 
in a long, rather low apartment, in the 
square or inner quadrangle of the building, 
are a number of Letmets; bruised, battered, 
broken, burnt ; the fragments of crests 
twisted by fire, dulled by water and r'ust 
and smoke. Here is a saddening record 
indeed. The visitor experiences much the 
same sensations as those with which he 
gazes at the bodies at the Great Saint Ber- 
nard t only in this instance the cause of 
death is fire and heat, in the other snow 
and vapour, wind and storm ; but all " ful- 
filling His word," Whose fiat has gone forth, 
11 To dust shalt thou return/' 

Aye, it is a sad moment when on a canvas 

by Google 

and descend. He w T as terribly burned. 
But Jacobs being a stout man — his portrait 
is hanging on the wall in the office wait- 
ing-room in South war k — could not squeeze 
through, and he was burned to a cinder, 
almost. What remained of him was laid 
to rest with all Brigade honours, but in this 
museum are his blackened tunic-front, his 
hatchet and spanner, the nozzle of the hose 
he held in his death-grip. That is all ! But 
his memory is green, and not a man who 
mentions but points with pride to his pic- 
ture, "Did you tell him about Jacobs ? Tp 
is a question which testifies to the estima- 
tion in which this brave man is held ; and 
he is but a sample of the rest. 

For he is not alone represented. Take 
the helmets one by one at random. Whose 
was this ? Joskph Ford's ? Yes, Tead on, 
and you will learn that he saved six lives at 
a fire in Gray's Inn -road, and that he was in 
the act of saving a seventh when he lost his 

life. Poor fellow ! 

Original from 




Stanley Guernsey; T. Ashfomj; Ho ad ; 
Berg, too, the hero of the Athambra fire in 
1882. But the record is too long. Re- 
qwescant in pace. They have done their 
duty ; some have survived to do it again, 
and we may be satisfied. . . , Come away, 
lock the cupboard, good Number 109. May 
it be long ere thy helmet is placed with sad 
memento within this press. 

Descending the stairs we reach the office 
once again. Here we meet our Superin- 
tendent. All is quiet. Some men are 
reading, others writing reports, mayhap ; 
a few are in their shirt-sleeves working, 
polishing the reserve engine : a calm 
reigns. We glance up at the automatic 
fire-alarm which, when just heated, rings the 
call, and gb it will warm up also with your 
hand, 1 ' See? Yes ! but suppose it should 
ring, suppose — 

Ting, ting, ting, ting-g-g-g! 

What's this? Thecal!? I am at the 
office door in a second. Well it is that I 
proceed no farther. As I pause in doubt 
and surprise, the heavy rear doors swing 
open by themselves as boldly and almost as 
noiselessly as the iron gate which opened 
for St. Peter. A clattering of hoofs, a 
running to and fro for a couple of seconds ; 
four horses trot in, led by the coachman ; 
in the twinkling of an eye the animals are 
hitched to the ready engines ; the firemen 
dressed, helnieu. J, and booted are seated on 
the machines ; a momentary pause to learn 

at the traces ; the passers-by scatter helter- 
skelter as the horses plunge into the street 
and then dash round the corner to their 
stables once again, 

11 A false alarm ? n 

" Yes r sir. We thought you'd like to see 
a turn out, and that is how it's done ! " 

A false alarm ! Was it true ? Yes, the 
men are gnod-temperedly doffing boots and 
helmets, and quietly resuming their late 
avocations, They do not mind. Less than 
twenty seconds have elapsed, and from a 
quiet hall the engine-room has been trans^ 
formed into a bustling fire station. Men, 
horses, engines all ready and away ! No one 
knew whither he was going. The call was 
sufficient for all of them. No questions put 
save one, " Where is it?" Thither the 
brave fellows would have hurried, ready to 
do and die, if necessary. 

It is almost impossible to describe the 
effect which this sudden transformation 
scene produces ; the change is so rapid, the 
effect is so dramatic, so novel to a stranger. 
We hear of the engines turning out, but to 
the writer, who was not in the secret, the 
result was most exciting, and the remem- 
brance will be lasting. The wily artist had 
placed himself outside, and secured a view, 
an instantaneous picture of the start ; but 
the writer was in the dark, and taken by 
surprise. The wonderful rapidity, order, 
discipline, and exactness of the parts secure 
a most effective tableau 


their destination ere the coachman pulls 
the ropes suspended over head ; the street 
doors fold back, automatically, the prancing, 
rearing steeds impatient, foaming, strain 

Digitized by Gi 

After such an experience one naturally 

desires to see the mainspring of all this 

machinery, the hub round which the wheel 

revolves— Captain Eyre M Shaw, C,B, 

Original from 




fires and small eases, but in all those above 
referred to engines and men were turned 
out. The grand total of fires amounted to 
4,705, or on an average 13 fires, or supposed 
fires, a day. This is an increase of 3^0 on 
those of i888 t arid wq find that the incre- 
ment has been growing for a decade. 

, there is no cause for 
alarm. Lives were lost at thirty-eight fires 
in 1889, 

The personnel of the Brigade consists 
of only seven hundred and seven of all 
ranks. The men keep watches of twelve 
hours, and do an immense amount of 
work besides. This force has the control 
of 158 engines, steam and manual of 
all sorts; 31-J miles of hose, and 80 

But the chief officer has slipped out, 
leaving us permission to interview his 
empty chair, and the apartments which he 
daily occupies when on duty in South wark. 
, This unpretending room upstairs is 
plainly but comfortably furnished— though 
no carpet covers the floor , oilcloth being 

cooler, Business is writ large on every side. However, considering the j 
On one wall is a large map of the fire number of houses, 
stations of the immense area presided over 
by Captain Shaw* Here are separately in- 
dicated the floating engines, the escapes, 
ladders, call points, police stations, and 
private communications. 

The chair which M the Captain "has tem- 
porarily vacated bristles with speaking 
tubes. On the walls beside the fire-place are 
portraits of men who have died on duty ; 
is decorated with 
nozzles — hose- 
nozzles— of vari- 
ous sizes. Upon 
the table are re- 

E>rts, map of 
aris, and many 
documents, amid 
which a novel 
shines, as indicat- 
ing touch with 
the outside world. 
There is a book- 
case full of care- 
fully arranged 
pamphlets, and 
on the opposite 
wall an illumin- 
ated address of 
thanks from the 
Fire Brigade As- 
sociation to Captain Shaw, which concludes 
with the expression of a hope "That his 
useful life may long be spared to fill the 
high position in the service he now adorns." 

With this we cordially concur, and we 
echo the " heartfelt wishes " of his obliged 
and faithful servants as we retire, secure in 
our possession of a picture of the apartment. 

There are many interesting items in 
connection with the Brigade which we find 
time to chronicle. For instance, we learn 

that the busiest time is, as one would 
expect, between September and December. 
The calls during the year i88q amounted 
to 3,131, Of these 594 were fabe alarms, 
IQ9 were only chimneys on fire, and of the 
remainder 153 only resulted in serious 
damage, 2,185 * n slight damage. These 
calls arc exclusive of ordinary chimney 


carts to carry it ; besides fire-floats, 
steam tugs, barges, and escapes ; long 
ladders, trolleys, vans, and J31 horses. 
These are to attend to 365 call points, 72 
telephones to stations, 55 alarm circuits, 
besides telephones to police stations and 
public and private buiklirfg and houses, and 
the pay is 3s. 6d. per day, increasing ! 

From these, not altogether dry, bones of 
facts we may build up a monument to the 
great energy and intense esprit de corps of 
Captain Shaw and his Brigade, In their 
hands we place ourselves every night. 
While the Metropolis sleeps the untiring 
Brigade watches over its safety. Whether 
at the head-quartern or at the outer stations, 
at the street stations, boxes, or escape sta- 
tion^ the men arc continually vigilant ; and 
are most efficiently seamded by the police. 




But for the latter force the efforts of the 
firemen would often be crippled, and their 
heroic attempts perhaps rendered fruitless, 
by the pressure of the excited spectators. 

Wc have now seen the manner in which 
the Metropolitan Fire Brigade is managed, 
and how it works ; the splendid services 
it accomplishes, for which few rewards are 
forthcoming. It is true that a man may 
attain to the post of superintendent, and to 
a house, with a salary of X-45 a y car s but 
he has to serve a long probation. For con- 
sider that he has to learn his drill and the 
general working of the Brigade. Every 
man must be competent to perform all the 
duties. During this course of instruction 
he is not permitted to attend a fire ; such 
experience being found unsuitable to be- 
ginners. In a couple of months, if he has 
been a sailor, the recruit is fit to go out, 
and he is sent to some station, where, as 
fireman of the fourth class, he performs 
the duties required. 

By degrees, from death or accident, or 
other causes, those above him are removed, 
or promoted, and he ascends the ladder to 
the first class, where, having passed an ex- 

amination, he gets a temporary appoint- 
ment as assistant officer on probation, If 
then satisfactory, he is confirmed in his 
position as officer, proceeds to head -quarters, 
and superintends a section of the establish- 
ment as inspector of the shops, and finally 
as drill instructor. 

After this service, lie is probably put 
under the superintendent at a station as 
" engineer -m-charge," as he is termed. He 
has, naturally, every detail of drill and 
** business H at his fingers 1 ends* The wis* 
dom of such an arrangement is manifest* 
As the cngineer-in-charge has been lately 
through the work of drill instructor, he 
knows exactly what is to be done, and 
every other officer in similar position also 
knows it. Thus uniformity of practice is 

There are many other points on which 
information is most courteously given at 
head-quarters. Rut time presses- We ac- 
cordingly take leave of our pleasant guide, 
and the most polite of superintendents, and, 
crossing the Iron Bridge once more, plunge 
into the teeming thoroughfares of the City, 


by Google 

Original from 

Scenes of the Siege of Paris, 

Fkom thk French ok Alphon'SE Daudet 


[AlHIONSE Daudet, the most brilliant of French novelists alive, was born at Ntmes in 1840. His 
parents were not rich t and he started life by drudging as an usher. Then he resolved to break his chain s t and 
to earn his bread at Paris with his pen, lie began by painting" in the Fig&ro^ with great graphic power, the 
miseries of ushers in provincial schools. Then he turned to u riling stories, with the success to which he owes 
his world-wide fame. Most of his novels are well known in^En gland ; but the characteristic little stories here 
translated will probably be new to English readers] 



ages of the^e 
was dead : his 

IS name was Stenne : tlicy 
called him Little Slenne, 

He was a thorough child of 
Paris ; delieate-lnoking, pale, 
about ten years old — perhaps 
fifteen— one never can tell the 
scaramouches. His mother 
father, an old marine, used 

AM VT1U Ikini lllVj UOV 

by Google 

tn guard a square In the Temple quarter, 
Babies, nursemaids, the old women with 
folding-chairs, poor mothers — all the lei- 
surely- moving world of Paris which puts 
itself out of the way of carriages in those 
gardens — knew Father Stenne, and wor- 
shipped him. People knew that under that 
bristling n^f^f f jjift terror u1 do S s aild 




tramps, there lurked a tender, peasant, 
almost a maternal smile ; and that to see 
it one had only to say to the good man — 

yi How is your little boy ? " 

Father Stenne was very fond of his son. 
IK: was never so happy a- in the evening 
after school when the little fellow came to 
fetch him t and when they went together 
round the walks, halting at every bench to 
speak to the regular loungers, and to reply 
to thetr civil greetings. 

With the siege all this unfortunately 
changed, The square was closed ; petro- 
leum had been stored in it, and poor Stenne, 
obliged to keep watch incessantly, passed 
his life amid the deserted, and partly de- 
stroyed, clumps of trees without being able 
to smoke, and without the company of his 
son until he returned home late in the 
evening. You should have seen his mous- 
tache when he spoke of the Prussians ! 

Little Stenne, however, did not complain 
very much of this new life. A siege is 
such fun for the street boys ! No more 
school ; no lessons ; holidays all the 
time, and the streets just like a fair ! 
The lad stayed out all 
day till quite evening, 
running about. He 
would accompany the 
battalions of the quarter 
on their turn of duty 
to the ramparts, choos- 
ing those specially 
which had good bands ; 
and on this question 
little Stenne was quite 
critical. He would 
have told you plainly 
that the band of the 
Ninety -sixth was not 
good for much ; but 
that the Fifty-fifth had 
an excellent one. At 
other times he watched 
the mobiles drilling, 
and then there were 
the queues to occupy 

With his basket on * 
his arm he would take 
his place in the long — 

lines which, in the 
half-light of the winter 
mornings — those ga*- 
less mornings — were formed outside the 
gates of the butchers and bakers. There 
the people, waiting for rations, their feet 
in the puddles, talked politics and made 

Digitized by Ct(K 

acquaintances ; and, - as the son of M. 
Stenne, every one asked the lad his 
opinion. But the greatest fun of all was 
the cork-throwing parties — the famous 
game of galochc — which the Breton 
mobiles had introduced during the siege. 
When little Stenne was not on the ram- 
parts, or at the distribution of rations, you 
would surely find him in the Place Chateau 
d'Eau. He did not play gakche himself, 
you must understand : too much money 
was needed for that. He contented himself 
by watching the players*' with all his eyes. ,T 
" One lad— a big fellow in a blue jacket — 
who never ventured aught but five-franc 
pieces, especially excited the admiration of 
little Stenne- When this fellow moved 
about you could hear the coins jingling in 
his pocket. 

One day, when picking up a 
piece that had rolled to the feet of 
our hero, the big boy said to him : 

" Ah ! that makes your mouth 
water, eh ? Well, if you wish, I 
will tell you where to 
find some like this." 

' LET '. '■ I A ■ ■ , GOOD £IR. 

When the game was finished he led 
Stenne to a corner of the Place, and pro- 
posed that he should go with him and sell 

newspapers,-, to . the. Germans — at thirty 
1 ■ Original Tram 




francs the trip ! At first Stenne indignantly 
refused, and he did not go again ta watch 
the game for three whole day* — three 
terrible days. He no longer ate nor slept. 
At night he had visions of heaps of 


galoches at the foot of 'lis bed, and five- 
franc pieces rolling and shining brightly. 
The temptation was too strong. On the 
fourth day he returned to the Chateau 
d'Eau, saw the big boy again, and per- 
mitted himself to be led astray ! 

One snowy morning they set out carrying 
a linen bag, and with a number of news- 
papers stuffed under their blouses. When 
they reached the Flanders Gate it was 
scarcely daylight. The big boy took Stenne 
by the hand and approaching the sentry — a 
brave " stay-at-home/' who had a red nose, 
and a good-natured expression— said to him, 
in a whining tone : 

il Let us pass, good sir ; our mother is ill, 
papa is dead. We are going — my little 
brother and I — to pick up some potatoes in 
the fields, 1 ' 

He began to cry. Stenne, shame-faced, 
hung down his head. The sentry looked at 
the lads for a moment, and then glanced 
down the white, deserted road, 

" Get on with you, quick ! f ' he said, turn- 

ing away ; and then they were in the Auber- 
villicrs-road. The big boy laughed heartily ! 
Confusedly, as in a dream, little Stenne saw 
the factories, now converted into barracks ; 
abandoned barricades decked out with wet 
rags, and high chimneys, now 
smokeless, standing up, half in 
ruins, against the misty sky. 
At certain distances were sen- 
tries ; officers, cloaked and 
hooded, sweeping the horizon 
with their field glasses ; and 
small tents saturated by the 
melting snow beside the expir- 
ing watch-fires. The big boy 
knew the paths, and took his 
way across the fields so as to 
avoid the outposts. 

Presently, however, they 
came upon a strong guard of 
Franc-tireurs, and were un- 
able to pass by unnoticed. 
The men were in a 
number of small 
huts concealed in a 
ditch full of water 
all along the line of 
the Soissons railway. 
Here it was no avail 
for the big boy to 
tell his story ; the 
Franc-tireurs would 
not let him pass. 
But while he was 
lamenting, an old 
sergeant, with white hair and wrinkled face, 
came out from the guard-house ; he was 
something like Father Stenne. 

" Come, come, you brats, don't cry any 
more ! " he said, M You may go and fetch 
your potatoes [ but first come in and warm 
yourselves a little. The youngster there 
looks nearly frozen ! " 

Alas ! little Stenne was not trembling 
from cold, but for fear, for very shame ! 

In the guardhouse were some soldiers 
huddled round a very poor fire — a true 
"widow's fire," at which they were toasting 
biscuits on the points of their bayonets. 
The men sat up close to make room for the 
boys, and gave them a drop of coffee. While 
they were drinking it an officer came to the 
door and summoned the sergeant of the 
guard. He spoke to him very rapidly in a 
low tone and went off in a hurry. 

u My lads," said the sergeant, as he turned 
round with a beaming countenance, lb There 
will he tobacco to-night ! The watch-word 
of the Prussians has been discovered, and 





this time we shall take 
that cursed Bourget from 
them ! Tl 

There was an explosion of u bravos" and 
laughter. The men danced, sang, and 
clashed their sword-bayonets, while the 
lads, taking advantage of the tumult, 
wended on their way. 

The trench crossed, the plain lay extended 
ill front of them ; beyond it was a long 
white wall , loopholed for musketry. To- 
wards this wall they made their way, 
halting at every step, pretending to pick up 

" Let us go back ; do not go there/* 
little Stenne kept saying. But the other 
only shrugged his shoulders, and con- 
tinued to advance. Suddenly they heard 
the click of a fire-lock, 

"Lie down/' cried the 
big boy, throwing himself 
flat on the ground as he 

As soon as he was 
down he 
w T histled. 



Digitized by C^OOgfe 

Another whistle came across the snow in 
reply. The boys crawled on. In front of 
the wall, on the level of the plain, appeared 
a pair of yellow moustaches under a dirty 
forage-cap. The big boy leaped into the 
trench beside the Prussian. 

"This is my brother/" he said, indicating 
his companion. 

He was so small, this little Stenne, that 
the Prussian laughed when he looked at 
him, and he was obliged to lift him up to 
the embrasure. 

On the further side of the wall were 
great mounds of earth, felled trees, dark 
holes in the snow, and in every hole was a 
dirty cap and a yellow moustache, whose 
wearer grinned as the lads passed. 

In one corner stood a gardener's cottage, 
ease mated with trunks of trees. The lower 
storey was filled with soldiers playing cards, 
' r busy making soup over a clear fire. How 
good the cabbage and bacon smelt ! What 
a difference from the bivouac of 
the Franctireurs ! Upstairs the 
officers w f ere quartered. Some- 
one was playing a piano, while 
from time to time the popping of 
champagne corks was also audible. 
When the Parisians entered a 
cheer of welcome assailed them. 
They distributed their newspapers, 
had something to drink, and the 
officers "drew them out." These 
officers wore a haughty and dis- 
dainful air, but the big boy amused 
them with his street slang and 
vulgar smartness. Little Stenne 
would rather have spoken, to have 
proved that he was not a fool, but 
something restrained him. Op- 




posite to him was seated a Prussian older 
and more serious than the rest, who was 
reading, or rather pretending to read, for his 
gaz$ was fixed on little Stenne. In his stead- 
fast look were tenderness a. id reproach, as 
if he had at home a child of the same age as 
Stenne — as if he was saying to himself— 

"I would rather die than see my own 
son engaged in such a business ! " 

From that moment Stenne felt as if a 
heavy hand had been laid upon his heart, 
and that its beatings were checked — stifled. 

To escape from this terrible feeling he 
began to drink. Soon the room and its 
occupants were turning round him. In a 
vague way he heard his companion, 
amidst loud laughter, making game of 
the National Guard — of their style of 
drill ; imitating a rush to arms ; a night 
alarm on the ramparts. Subsequently the 
" big fellow " lowered his tone, the 
officers drew nearer, their faces became 
more grave. The wretch was about to 
tell them of the intended attack of the 

Then little Stenne stood up in a rage, 
as his senses returned to him ; he cried 
out, ''None of that, big one, none of 
that ! " but the other only laughed and 
continued. Ere he had finished, all the 
officers were on their feet. One of them 
opened the door. 

"Get out," he said to the boys. " Be off ! " 

Then they began to converse among 
themselves in German. The big boy 
walked out as proud as the Doge, clinking 
his money in his pocket. Stenne followed 
him with drooping head, and as he passed 
the elderly Prussian, whose glance had so 
discomposed him, he heard him say in a 
sad tone in broken French, " This is bad ! 
Very bad ! " 

Tears came into Stenne's eyes. Once 
in the plain again, the lads set out running, 
and returned quickly. The bag was 
full of potatoes which the Prussians had 
given them, and with it they passed the 
Franc-tireurs unmolested. The troops were 
preparing for the attack that night ; bodies 
of men were coming up silently and mass- 
ing themselves behind the walls. The old 
sergeant was present, engaged in posting his 
men, and seemed quite happy. As the lads 
passed he nodded at them, and smiled 
kindly in recognition. 

Ah ! how bad Stenne felt when he saw 
that smile : he felt inclined to cry out — 

" Don't advance yonder ; we have be- 
trayed you ! " 

iiized by V^OOQlt 

But the "big one 1 ' had told him that 
if he said anything they would both be 
shot ; and fear restrained him. 

At La Courneuve the pair went into 
an empty house to divide the money. 
Truth compels me to state that the 
division was honourably made, and little 
Stenne did not feel his crime weigh so 
heavily on his mind when he heard the 
coins jingling in his pocket, and thought 
of the prospective games of galoche ! 

But — unhappy child ! — when he was 
left alone ! When, after they had passed 
the gate, and his companion had left him 
—oh, then his pocket weighed heavily, 
and the hand which pressed upon his 
heart was hard indeed ! Paris was no 
longer the same. The people passing 
looked at him severely, as if they were 
aware of his mission. The word spy 
seemed to ring in his ears, and he heard it 
above the din of carriages, and in the rolling 
of the drums along the canal. 

At length he reached home, and was very 
glad to find that his father had not yet 
come in. He hurried upstairs to his room 
to hide the crowns which had become so 
burdensome to him. 

Never had Father Stenne been in such 
spirits, never in such good humour, as on 
that evening when he returned home. 
News had come in from the provinces : 
things were going better. As he ate his 
supper the old soldier gazed at his musket 
which was hanging on the wall, and ex- 
claimed : " Hey, my lad, how you would 
go at the Prussians if you were big 
enough ! " 

About eight o'clock the sound of cannon 
was heard. 

" That's Aubervilliers ; they are fighting 
at Bourget," said the good old, man, who 
knew all the forts. Little Stenne turned 
pale, and feigning fatigue went to bed, but 
not to sleep. The thunder of the cannon 
continued. He pictured to himself the 
Franc-tireurs marching in the darkness to 
surprise the Prussians, and falling into an 
ambuscade themselves. He. recalled the 
sergeant who had smiled, and pictured him, 
with many others, extended lifeless on the 
snow. The price of all this blood was 
then under his pillow, and he — he, the son 
of M. Stenne, a soldier — what had he 
done ? Tears choked him. He could hear 
his father walking about in the next room ; 
he heard him open the window. In the 
Place below the rappel was being beaten ; 
a battalion of mobiles was mustering. Yes' 




it was a real battle— no mistake about 

it ! The unhappy lad could not repress 

his sobs. 

" Why, what's the mat- 
ter ? " cried Father Stenne, 

coming into the bedroom. 
The lad could bear it 

no longer ; he jumped 

out of bed, and was about 

to throw himself at his 

father's ^ feet when the 

silver coins rolled out upon 

the floor. 

"What's this? Have 

you robbed anyone ? n 

asked the old soldier in a 

tremulous voice- 
Then, all in a breath, 

little Stenne told him how 

he had gone to the Prus- 
sian lines and what he had 

done. As he continued 

to speak the weight on 

his heart grew less — it was 

a relief to accuse himself. 

Father Stenne listened ; 

his face was terrible to 

see. When the lad had finished his 

narrative the old man buried his face in his 
hands and wept aloud, 

" Oh, fat her! father!"— 
The boy would have 
spoken, but the old man 
pushed him aside, and 
picked up the money 
without a word. 

"Is this all?" he asked. 
Little Stenne made a 
sign in the affirmative. 
The old soldier took down 
his musket and cartouche- 
box, and putting the silver 
money in his pocket, said 

"Very well ; lam 
going to pay it back 
"\ to them ! n 

Then, without 
another word, with- 
out even turning his 
head, he descended 
} the stairs, and joined 
the mobiles who were 
marching out into 
the darkness. 
No one ever saw him again ! 

,•• . 



HERE is a story which I heard this very 
week in a drinking-shop at Mont- 
martre. To do the tale justice I ought to 
possess the faubourg accents of Master 
Belisaire, and his great carpenter's apron ; 
and to drink two or three cups of that 
splendid white wine of Montmartre, which 
is capable of imparting a Parisian accent 
to even a native of Marseilles. Then I might 
be able to make your flesh creep, and your 
blood run cold, as Bclisaire did when he 
related this lugubrious and veracious story 
to his boon companions. 

" It was the day after the ' amnesty ' (Beli- 
saire meant armistice). My wife wished me 
to take our child across to Villeneuve-la- 
Garenne to look after a little cottage we 
had there, and of which we had heard and 
seen nothing since the siege had commenced. 
I felt nervous about taking the little chap 
with me, for I knew that we should fall in 
with the Prussians ; and as I had not yet 
encountered them, I was afraid that some- 
thing unploasant would happen. But his 
mother was determined. * Get out ! T she 

cried. * Let the lad have a breath of fresh 

" And the fact is he wanted it badly, poor 
little chap, after five months of the siege 
operations and privations. 

" So we started off together across the 
fields. I suppose he was happy, poor mite, 
in seeing the trees and the birds again, 
and in dabbling himself with mud in the 
ploughed land ; but I was not so comfort- 
able myself ; there were too many spiked 
helmets about for me. All the way from 
the canal to the island we met them ever 
moment ; and how insolent they were ! 
was as much as I could do to restrain 
myself from knocking some of them down. 
But 1 did feel my temper getting the better 
of me as we reached Villeneuve, and saw 
our poor gardens all in disorder, plants 
rooted up, the houses open and pillaged, 
and those bandits established in them ! 
They were shouting to each other from 
the windows, and drying their clothes on 
our trellises. Fortunately the lad was trot- 
ting along elase bciidc me, and I thought 





when I looked at him, if my hands itched 
more than usual, % Keep cool, Belisaire ; 
take care that no harm befall the brat ! ' 

" Nothing but this feeling prevented me 
from committing some foolish act. Then I 
understood why his mother had been so 
determined about my bringing the boy out, 

" The hut is at the end of the open space, 
the last on the right hand on the quay, I 

found it empty from top to bottom, like all 
the others. Not an article of furniture, not 
a pane of glass, was left in it I There was 
nothing except some bundles of straw and 
the last leg of the big arm-chair, which was 
smouldering in the chimney. These signs 
were Prussian all over ; but I could see 
nothing of the Germans. 

11 Nevertheless it seemed to me that 

"i sMimn th* «*cH-my«, fc Original from 



somebody was stirring in the 
basement* I had a bench down 
there at which I used to amuse 
myself on Sundays* So I told 
the child to wait for me, and 
went down, 

" No sooner had I opened the 
door than a great hulking soldier 
of William's army rose growling 
from the shavings and came at 
me, his eyes starting from his 
head, swearing strange oaths 
which I did not understand. I 
could perceive that the brute 
meant mischief, for at the first 
word that I attempted to speak 
he began to draw his sword. 

" My blood boiled in a second. All the 
bile which had been aroused during the 
previous hour or so rushed to my face, I 
seized the bench -iron and struck him with 
it. You know, my lads, whether my fist is 
usually a light one, but it seemed to me 
that that day I had a thunderbolt at the 
end of my arm. At the first blow the 
Prussian measured his length upon the floor. 
I thought he was only stunned. 
Ah ! well, yes ! But all I had 
to do was to clear out r to get 
myself out of the pickle. 

M It seemed queer to me, who 
had never killed anything — not even a lark 
— in my life, to see the great body lying 
there, 'My faith ! but he was a fine fair- 
haired fellow, with a curly beard like deal 
shavings. My legs trembled as 1 looked— 
and now the brat upstairs was beginning to 
feel lonely, and to yell out, ' Papa> papa ! ' 
at the top of his voice, 

"There were some Prussians passing along 
the road, I could see their sabres and their 
long legs through the casement of the under- 
ground room* Suddenly the idea struck 
me — l If they enter the child is lost/ That 
was enough. I trembled no longer. In a 
second I dragged the corpse under the 
bench, covered it with planks and shavings, 
and hurried up the stairs to join the child. 

41 < Here Iaml'I said. 

" i What is the matter, papa ? How pale 
you are ! ' 

11 *Come, let us get on ! f 

l( I declare to you that the l Cossacks ' 
might hustle me, or regard me with sus- 
picion , but I would not take any notice of 
them. It seemed that some one was run- 
ning after me, and crying out behind us all 
the time. Once when a horseman came 
galloping up, I thought I would have fallen 

Digitized by VjOOglC 


down in a faint ! However, after I had 
passed the bridges I began to pull myself 
together. Saint Denis was full of people. 
There was no risk of our being fished out 
of the crowd. Then I only thought of our 
little cottage, The Prussians would surely 
burn it when they found their comrade, to 
say nothing of the risk of Jaquot, my neigh- 
bour, the water-bailiff, who, being the only 
Frenchman left in the hamlet, would be 
held responsible for the dead soldier ! 
Truly it was scarcely plucky to save myself 
in such a way ! 

" I felt that I must arrange for the con* 
cealment of the body somehow ! The nearer 
we came to Paris the closer I cherished this 
idea. I could not leave that Prussian in 
my basement, So at the ramparts I hesi* 
Uted no longer r j na | f rom 




" i You go on, 1 I said to the brat, * I have 
another place to visit in Saint Denis/ 

iL I embraced him, and turned back. My 
heart was beating rather fast, but all the 
same I felt easier in my mind, not having 
the child with me then. 

" When I again reached Villeneuve, night 
was approaching- I kept my eyes open, you 
may depend, and advanced foot by foot* 
The place seemed quiet enough, however. 
I could discern the hut still standing yonder 
in the mist. There was a long black line, 
or row, upon the quay. This L palisade ' 
was composed of Prussians calling the roIL 
A splendid opportunity to find 
the house deserted. As I 
made my way along I noticed 
Father Jaquot engaged in 
drying his net*. Decidedly 
nothing was known yet. I 
entered my house, I went 
down into the basement and 
felt about among the shavings. 
The Prussian was there ! 
There were also a couple of 

14 For some five minutes I heard the 
clanking of sabres, the tapping at doors; and 
then the soldiers entered the court -yard and 
began to shout — 

" i Hofmann ! Hofmann ! J 

"Poor Hofmann remained quite quiet 
under his shavings ; but 'twas I who was on 
the alert. Every instant I expected to see 
the guard enter. I had picked up the dead 
man's sabre, and there I was ready, but 
saying to myself, * If you get out of this 
scrape, my boy, you will owe a splendid 
wax taper to Saint John the Baptist of 
Belleville ! f 


rats already busy at work at his helmet, 
and, for a moment, I had a horrible fright, 
when I felt his chinstrap move ! Was he 
reviving ? No ; his head was heavy and 

"I crouched in a corner and waited. I 
had the idea to throw the body into the 
Seine when the others were all asleep , 

44 1 do, not know whether it was the 
proximity of the dead, but I was uncom- 
monly sorry when the Prussians sounded 
the 'retreat* that night. Loud trumpet 
blasts resounded — Ta-ta-ta ! three by three, 
regular toad's music. It is not to such 
music that our fellows wish to go to bed 1 

i£ However, after they had called several 
times my tenants decided to return. I 
could hear their heavy boots upon the stair- 
case, and in a few moments the whole house 
was snoring like a country clock. This was 
all I had been waiting for, I looked out. 

"The place was deserted ; all the houses 
were in darkness. Good for me I I re- 
descended quickly, drew my Hofmann from 
beneath the bench, stood him upright, 
raised him on my back, like a burden, or 
a bale. But wasn't he heavy, the brigand ! 
What with his weight, my terror, and the 
want of food, I was afraid that I should not 
have strength! aWrowch my destination, 


4 o 


Then no sooner had I reached the centre of 
the quay than I heard someone walking 
behind me, I turned round. There was no 
one ! The moon was rising. I said to my- 
self, * I must look out ; the sentries will fire ! } 
u To add to my trouble the Seine was 
low. If I had cast the corpse on the bank 
it would have remained there as in a cistern. 
I went on ; no water ! I could not go out 
any farther : my breath came thick and 
short, I panted. At length when I thought 
I had gone far enough, I threw down my 
load. There he goes into the mud ! I 
pushed and pushed I Hue ! There ! 

" Fortunately a puff of wind came up 
from the east, the river rose a little, and I 
felt the 'Maccabee 1 leave his moorings 
gently. Pleasant journey to him ! I took 
a draught of water, and quickly mounted 
the bank, 

il As I passed the bridge at Villeneuve 
the people were gazing at something black 
in the water. At that distance it had the 
appearance of a wherry. It was my Prussian, 
who was coming down on the current, in 
the middle of the stream 1 f - 

by Google 

Original from 

Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives. 

From a Fain.u 

AGE 23. 

Unr TA *ma* Lati?r*n«t f £ M MJL. 


Bok\ i8oq. 



w h i c h 

h here 
commenced, and in 
which it is our pur- 
pose to give portraits, 
month by month, of 
the most eminent men 
and women of the day 
at different times of 
hie, cannot be more *romai>AQUwvp*h} 
fitly opened than with 
those of the great poet whose name has 
been for more than fifty years the glory of 
our literature. Portraits of Lord Tennyson 
in youth are rare ; but Lord Tennyson 
himself has had the kindness to assist us, 

- Digitized by GQOgle 


11 Mayallj of Regent- 
street/' he writes, 
"has done the best 
photograph, and Cam- 
| eron, of 70, Mortimer- 
l street, has a photo- 
graph, as a young 
man, from a portrait 
by Lawrence/* These 
are the two here re- 
produced. Both have 
a special interest, be- 
sides the interest of 
comparison which 
j belongs to all the 
series : the first, as a 
portrait of the poet, 
o.L by one of the best 
5 *' artists of that day, at 

an age when his first volume— tiny, but of 
dazzling promise — had just been given to 
the world ; and the second, as that which 
Lord Tennyson regards as the best portrait 
of himself in later life, 



portraits of 
widely different 
Three-quarters of a cen 
tury is so vast a span of 

semblance between the 
charming little boy of five 
in frills and the grey Pro- 
fessor of eighty, who 
might be his great-grand- 
father, though distinctly 
traceable, may not at first 
be visible to all. At five 
years old John Stuart 
Blackie was, we may 
assume, most interested 
in tops and pop-guns ; at 
forty-five he was a Uni- 
versity Professor, and just 
returning from his tour 
to Athens which was the 
origin of his well-known 
advocacy of the study of 
modern Greek ; at eighty 
he was — as he still is, and 
as we trust he may long 
be — at once the most 
learned and the most pop- 
ular of living Scotchmen. 

From a rhotagraph by] 


Sun. KJfotf $ #>». 



ACE ai. 

AGE 3P* 


AGE \f: 

AQB 54, 


Born 1834. 

OST men born to be great 
preachers have, at the age of 
twenty-one, not yet attempted 
their first sermon. Four years 
before that age Mn Spurgeon, 
u the boy preacher/ 1 was 
speaking every Sunday to a crowd which 
overflowed the chapel doors and mobbed 
the very windows* Before 1855 — the date 
of our first portrait — he had been called to 
London, and was drawing such a throng to 
the chapel in New Park-street, that the 
building had speedily to be enlarged. That 

Digitized by CiOOgK* 

year was also memorable for another reason ; 
in January Mr, Spurgeon issued the first 
sermon of the unexampled series which was 
to run without an interruption, week by 
week, for five-and -thirty years. Long 
before the date of our second portrait, the 
New Park-street chapel, in spite of its 
enlargement, had become too small to 
hold the congregation. The Metropolitan 
Tabernacle was erected, and from that time 
down to this has been crowded every 
Sunday to the doors. 

For leave to reproduce the portraits above 
given, our thanks are due alike to Mr 
Spurgeon, and to Messrs, Passmore & 
Alabaster^ to whom the copyright belongs. 




From a Photo, ey 


HERE is an old wives* saying, 
that pretty children often 
grow up plain, and vice versd ; 
but, as our readers may de- 
termine for themselves, Miss 
Ellen Terry has been always 
charming. And she has always been an 
actress. At the age of eight, as our first 
portrait shows her, she was playing as the 
child Mamillius in the * ( The Winter's 
Tale/' with Charles Kean's company, at 
the Princess's, and was already giving pro- 
mise of the mingled power and charm which 

From a Photo, by] 


[Windotof GtovL 

perhaps have never been more fully mani- 
fest than in the part of Lucy Ashton t which 
all London is now crowding the Lyceum 
to see. 

For all the photographs here repro- 
duced we have to thank the kindness of 
Miss Terry Original from 




JV™ a Photograph h]r] AGE v}. [Jf>j*r* WtiltrT 4 Son*. From a FhettwajA h*i) AKE 3a [M**rr* Ltti J WhitfzUL 

frvm a rbvtQff r &ph fry] 


Born 1838. 

wearing a mous- 
tache presents 
an unfamiliar 
aspect ; but such 
was his appearance when! in 
1867, he had just made his great success in 
41 Hunted Down," at Manchester. The year 
after, Mr- Irving deprived himself of his 
moustache in order to play Dorincourt in 
"The Belle's Stratagem" and appeared as 
in our second portrait — which, however, he 
assures us, is a shade too plump to be his 
accurate presentment. Ten years later, 

Digitized by LiQOg I C 

when Mr. Irving was preparing to amaze 
the world as Hamlet \ at the Lyceum T 
his features had assumed the well-known 
aspect which they wear in our third por- 
trait, and which is still more visible in the 
last of the series, which has been selected as 
one of Mr, Irving *s favourites among the 
stock of photographs which he has very 
kindly placed at our disposal. 


4 6 



Born 1837. 

T has been said that 
every poet destined 
to become famous has 
written a great poem before 
five-and-twenty; Mr, Swin- 
burne is, howe% T er, an excep- 
tion to this rule, He was seven-and-twenty 
when f 1864, he published u Atalanta in 
Calydon," his first great work, and the 
finest imitation of a Greek play ever 
written, Two years later, the first series of 
u Poems and Ballads f * proved conclusively 
that the new singer who had arisen must 
be classed with Shelley at the head of all the 

From a Photograph by] 

AGE S3, 

I Jffunv. Elliott f Fry. 


lyric bards of England* Mr, Swinburne's 
appearance at that time is given in the 
first of our two portraits, which is said by 
those who knew him to be an admirable 

Nearly a quarter of a century has since 
elapsed, and it is interesting to notice how 
the course ot years, which has failed to tame 
the fiery vigour of his verse T has wrought 
the younger aspect of the poet into the 
older and still finer one. 

by Google 

Original from 



^-T~ ■ 

From a I'twi^y* «!*** { w Jfewn. Jlault 4- t'c*. 
AGE 19 


From a Photograph *s] 

AGE 55, 

[Jfrjjri. /-y^k 4 />|/. 


Born 1834. 

nine teen , was already show- 
ing, in his father's bank in 
Lombard-street, the remark- 
able capacity for business 
which he combines beyond 
example with pre-eminence in literature 
and science, At twenty-eight, the age at 
which our second portrait represents him, 
he was already meditating his great work 
m " Prehistoric Times !t — a book which has 


been translated into all the leadi ng languages, 
and to which the writer chiefly owes his 
fame. Sir John Lubbock's mind, as is 
well known, is of the enviable kind which 
can find its interests alike in the great and 
in the little, in the past and in the present 
— which can pass from the wigwam of a 
prehistoric savage to the London of to-day, 
and turn with equal gusto from canoes 
to County Councils, and from banks to 

Our portraits are reproduced from photo- 
graphs kindly lent by Sir John Lubbock 
for the purpow<nal from 




From a FholoffrapH] 


Born 1856, 

T is not often possible to 
present a portrait of a well- 
known writer taken in his 
nursery days ; but in the case 
of Mr, Rider Haggard, he 
has obligingly enabled us to 
do so, as well as to reproduce a portrait 
of himself when, as a boy of seven, he was 
probably about to quit the nursery for the 
schoolroom. The third portrait of the 
series represents him when, at nineteen, as 
secretary to Sir HenTy Bulwer, he was about 


/Vom a Photograph] 

AGE 34- 

[bpXr t J+jr m MUBmUk 

to pay a lengthy visit to Natal — there to 
acquire the thorough familiarity with the 
scenery and the people of South Africa, 
which "he was afterwards to turn to excellent 
account, especially in u Jess/ 1 Our final 
portrait r which is taken from a recent 
photograph, represents him as he is at 
present, when he has proved himself the 

A Fair Smuggler. 


[MICHAEL LERMONTOPF was born at Moscow in the year 1H14. lib father w;l.<s an officer on active 
service ; und T his mother having died while he was still in petticoats, lie was brought up by his grandmother, 
a rich old lady, who had \\ pretty house at the village of Tarkhanui. Michael, who was in temperament si 
kind of Russian Hotspur, and who was pelted and spoilt at home, was sent in due course to the University, 
where he picked a quarrel with a bullying tutor, and was speedily expelled. Then he entered (he Military 
College at St. Petersburg, and obtained a commission in the Hor>e Guards, His hitler wit and biting tongue 
involved him in perpetual duels. 1 1 is genius was still sleeping ; hut the sound of the pistol which killed 
Pushkin awoke it suddenly to life. Pushkin's works had long been his delight ; and, indeed, their characters 
had much in common — though in appearance, with his tall and powerful figure, his fair and waving hair, his 
large blue eyes and chiselled mouth, LermontofT was exactly the reverse of the dusky little gipsy* looking 
Pushkin. His fate also was to be the same. In a piece of fiery verse he called upon the Czar io avenge the 
death of the great poet. The poem was regarded by the Cxar as an imperii nenre, and Lerrncmtoff was 
banished to the Caucasus. The wild and savage mountains suited well his fiery temper, and he became "the 
poet of the Caucasus/* the singer of the lives, the legends, and the adventures of the stern and rocky 
mountaineers, lie wrote also one prose work, "A Hero of our Times," from which we take the present story* 
Something in the book involved him in a duel— the last he was to fight, though he was only twenty-seven. 
As the challenged party, he possessed the choice of weapons and the mode of fighting; and he chose to 
fight with pistols on the margin of a precipice, so that, if either of the rivals staggered from a wound) he must 
infallibly hill over and be dashed to pieces. This strange encounter actually took place; and Lermontoff, 
struck by his opponent's bullet, reeled, and fell back into the terrible abyss,] 

t - 

AM AX is the most 
wretched of all 
our maritime 
towns. I almost 
died of hunger 
there , besides be- 
ing nearly drowned, 

I arrived very late at night 
in a wretched teiega* Thr 
coachman stopped his tired 
horses close to a stone build- 
ing, which stands by itself at 
the entrance to the town. A 
Black Sea Cossack, who was 
on guard, heard the bells of 
my carriage, and cried out, with 
the sharp accent of a person 
suddenly waked up/* Who goes 

Out came the sergeant and 
corporal, I told them I was an 
officer, travelling by order of 
the Crown, and that I wanted 
a billet somewhere. 

The corporal took us into 
the town. All the houses we 
tried were already occupied. 
The weather was cold ; I had 
been three nights without sleep. 
I was very tired, and our use- 
less inquiries ended by irritat- 
ing me/ 

li My friend," J said to the 
corporal, " take me to some 
place where I can at least lie matter where it is. ,T 

by Google 


Original from 


li I know a hut in the neighbourhood," 
replied the corporal, il where you might 
sleep ; but I am afraid it would scarcely 
suit your honour/' 

'* Go on/' I said, paying no attention to 
his observation. 

After much walking through dirty little 
streets, we at last reached a sort of cabin on 
the edge of the sea. 

The full moon cast its light on the 
thatched roof and the white walls of my 
proposed habitation. In the court, sur- 
rounded by a sort of palisade, I saw a 
hut, older and more broken down than the 
principal one. From this hut the ground 
sloped rapidly through the court down 
towards the sea, and I saw at my feet the 
foam of the troubled waters. The moon 
seemed to be contemplating the restless 
element, which was undergoing her in- 
fluence. By the rays of the ruler of the 
night, I could make out, at a consider- 
able distance from the shore, two ships, 
whose black sails stood out like spiders' 
webs against the dull tints of the sky, 
li This will do,'' I said to myself, "to- 
morrow morning I shall start for 

A Cossack of the line was acting as my 
servant. I told him to take out my trunk 
and send away the postilion ; after which I 
called the master of the house. I could 
yet no answer, I knocked, but there was 
still no reply; What could it mean ; I 
knocked again, and at last a boy of about 
fourteen showed himself. 

i; Where's the master of the house ? " 

14 There is none," returned the child, in 
the dialect of Little Russia. 

"No master! then where is the mis- 
tress ? Tl 

44 Gone into the village. 1 ' 

u Who will open the door then ? " I cried, 
at the same time 
kicking at it. 

The door opened 
of itself, and out 
came a wave of damp 

I struck a match, 
and saw by its light 
a blind boy, stand- 
ing motionless before 

I must here say 
that I am strongly 
prejudiced against 
the blind, the deaf, 
the lame, the hunch- 

backed ; in short, against the deformed 
in general. I have remarked that there 
is always a singular correspondence be- 
tween the physical formation of a man 
and his moral nature ; as though by the 
loss of a member the individual lost certain 
faculties of the souk 

I examined the child's face ; but what can 
one make of a physiognomy without eyes ? 
I looked at him for some time^ with a feel- 
ing of compassion, when suddenly I saw on 
his lips a cunning smile, which produced 
upon me a very disagreeable impression, 
u Could this blind boy be not so blind as he 
appeared ? T * I said to myself. Answering 
my own question I said that the boy was 
evidently suffering from cataract, and that 
the appearance of cataract cannot be 
simulated, Why, moreover, should he 
affect blindness ? Yet in spite of my 
argument I still remained vaguely sus- 

u Is the mistress of the cabin your 
mother ? " I said to the boy, 
u No." 

II Who are you, then ? " 

^ A poor or- 
phan/' he re- 

" Has the mis- 
I ress any chil- 
dren ? " 

"She has one 
daughter, who 
has gone to sea 
with a Tartar/ 1 

"What Tar 
tar ? " 

"How do I 
know ? A Tar- 
tar of the Cri- 
mea, a boat ma ti 
from Kertch." 


by Google 

ffOHAM TRIED ixgpjgjf^fg^Bn. 




I went into the hut. Two benches, a 
table, and a large wardrobe, placed near 
the stove, composed the whole of the 
furniture, No holy image against the wall 
— bad sign ! 

The sea-breeze came in through the 
broken panes of the window. I took a 
wax candle from my portmanteau, and 
after lighting it prepared to install myself. 
I placed on one side my sabre and my 
carbine, laid my pistols on the table, 
stretched myself out 
on a bench, and, 
wrapping myself up 
in my fur-lined coat, 
lay down. 

My Cossack took 
possession of the 
other bench. Ten 
minutes afterwards 
he was fast asleep ; 
I, however, was still 
awake, and could 
not drive from my 
mind the impression 
made upon me by 
the boy, with his 
two white eyes. 

An hour passed. 
Through the win- 
dow fell upon the 
floor the fantastic 
light of the moon. 

Suddenly a 
shadow was cast, 
where before there 
had been bright 
light. I sprang up, 
and went to the 
window. A human 
figure passed once 
more, and then dis- 
appeared — heaven 
knows where. I 
could scarcely be- 
lieve that it had 
escaped by the slope 
into the sea ; yet 

Throwing on my overcoat, and taking 
my sabre, I went out of the cabm r and saw 
the blind boy before me. I concealed my- 
self behind the wall, and he passed on con- 
fidently, but with a certain cautiousness, 
He was carrying something under his arm, 
and advanced slowly down the slope towards 
the sea, H This is the hour," I said to my- 
self, " in which speech is restored to the 
dumb and sight to the blind/ 1 

,00.0 1 c 


there was no other 

I followed him at some distance, anxious 
not to lose sight of him. 

During this time the moon became 
covered with clouds, and a black fog rose 
over the sea, It was just possible to dis- 
tinguish in the darkness a lantern on the 
mast of a ship at anchor, close to the shore. 
The waves were rolling in, and threatened, 
if he continued to advance, to swallow up 
my blind adventurer. He was now so near 
the sea, that with another step he would be 

lost. But this was 
not the first of his 
nocturnal expedi- 
tions ; so at least I 
concluded from the 
agility with which 
he now sprang from 
rock to rock, while 
the sea poured in 
beneath his feet. 
Suddenly he stopped 
as though he had 
heard some noise, 
sat down upon a 
rock, and placed his 
burden by his side. 
He was now joined 
by a white figure 
walking along the 
shore. I had con- 
cealed myself be- 
hind one of the 
rocks, and overheard 
the following con- 

u The wind/' said 
a woman's voice, " is 
very violent ; janko 
will not come.-' 

11 Janko/' replied 
the blind boy T "Jan- 
ko is not afraid of 
the wind." 

"But the clouds 
get thicker and 
it is easier to escape 

(i In the darkness 
the coast-guard**' 

"And what if he gets drowned ? " 

"You will have no more bright ribbons 
to wear on Sunday, 1 ' 

As I listened to this colloquy* I remarked 
that the blind boy* who had spoken to me 
in the Little Russian dialect, talked quite 
correctly the true Russian language, 

"You see," he continued, clapping his 
hands/ 4 1 was right. Jankn fears neither 
the *ea, nor the wind, nor the fog. nor the 




coast-guard. Listen ! It is not the break- 
ing of the waves I hear. No, it is the noise 
of his oars." 

The woman got up, and, with an 
anxious look, tried to pierce the darkness. 
44 You are wrong, - ' she said, u I hear 

I also tried to see whether there was not 
some sort of craft in the distance, but could 
distinguish nothing. A moment later, how- 
ever, a black speck showed itself among the 
waves, now rising, now falling. At last I 
could make out the form of a boat dancing 
on the waters, and rapidly approaching the 

The man who was guiding it must have 
been a bold sailor to cross on such a night 
an arm of the sea some fourteen miles 
across, and must have had good reasons for 
braving so much danger. I watched the 
frail little craft which was now diving and 
plunging like a duck through the breakers. 
It seemed as though she must the next 
moment be dashed to pieces on the shore, 
when suddenly the skilful rower turned into 
a little bay, and there, in comparatively calm 
water, effected a landing. 

The man was of middle height, and 
wore on his head a cap of black sheep- 
skin. He made a sign with his hand, 
when the two mysterious persons who 
had been talking together, joined him. 
Then the three united their forces to drag 
from the boat a burden which seemed to be 
so heavy, that I cannot even now under- 
stand how so slight a craft could have sup- 
ported such a weight. They at last hoisted 
the cargo on their shoulders, then walked 
away and soon disappeared. 

The best thing for me to do now was to 
return to my resting-place. But the strange 
scene I had witnessed had so struck me that 
I waited impatiently for daybreak. 

My Cossack was much surprised when, 
on waking up, he found me fully dressed. 
I said nothing to him about my nocturnal 
excursion. I remained for some little time 
looking through the window with admira- 
tion at the blue sky, studded with little 
clouds, and the distant shore, the Crimea, 
stretched along the horizon like a streak 
of violet, ending in a rock, above which 
could be seen the tower of a lighthouse. 
Then I went out, and walked to the fort of 
Chanagora to ask the commandant when 
I could go to Ghelendchik. 

Unfortunately the commandant could 
give me no positive answer ; the only 
vessels in port were stationary ones, and 


trading ships which had not yet taken 
in their cargo. " Perhaps," he said, 
" in three or four days a mail packet 
will come in, and then something can be 

I went back in a very bad humour to my 
lodging. At the door stood the Cossack, 
who, coming towards me with rather a 
scared look, said inquiringly : — 

44 Bad news?" 

" Yes," I answered. " Heaven knows 
when we shall get away from here." 

At these words the anxiety of the soldier 
seemed to increase. He came close to me, 
and murmured, in a low voice : — 

44 This is not a place to stop at. I met 
just now a Black Sea Cossack of my ac- 
quaintance — we were serving in the same 
detachment last year. When I told him 
where we had put up : i Bad place/ he 
said ; 4 bad people. 1 And what do you think 
of that blind boy ? Did anyone ever before 
see a blind person running about from one 
place to another ; going to the bazaar, 
bringing in bread and water ? Here they 
seem to think nothing of it." 

44 Has the mistress of the place come 

4 * This morning, while you were out, an 
old woman came with her daughter." 

44 What daughter ? Her daughter is 

"I don't know who it is, then. But look, 
there is the old woman sitting down in the 

I went in. A good fire was shining in 
the stove, and a breakfast was being pre- 
pared, which, for such poor people, seemed 
to me rather a luxurious one. When I 
spoke to the old woman, she told me that 
she was stone deaf. 

It was impossible, then, to talk with her. 
I turned to the blind boy, and, taking him 
by the ear, said : — 

44 1 say, you little wizard, where were you 
going last night with that parcel under your 
arm ? " 

He at once began to moan and cry, and 
then sobbed out : 

4 * Where was I going last night ? I went 
nowhere. And with a parcel ! What 
parcel ? " 

The old woman now proved that her 
ears, when she so desired it, were by no 
means closed. 

44 It is not true," she cried. " Why do 
you tease an unfortunate boy ? What do 
you take him for ? What harm has he done 
you ? " 




I could stand the noise no longer. So I 
went out, determined somehow or other to 
find the solution of this riddle. 

Wrapped up in my overcoat, I sat down 
on a bench before the door. Before me 
broke the waves of the sea, still agitated by 
the tempest of the night. Their monoto- 
nous noise seemed to resemble the confused 
murmurs of a town. As I listened I thought 
of bygone years — of the years I had passed 
in the north, of our bright, fresh capital ; 
and little by little I became absorbed in my 



About an hour pa^ed, perhaps mure. 
Suddenly the cadences of a .singing voice 
struck my ear, I listened, and heard a 


strange melody, now slow and sad, now 
rapid and lively. The sounds seemed to 
fall from the sky. I looked upland on the 
roof of the cabin I saw a young girl, in a 
straight dress, with dishevelled hair, like a 
naiad. With one hand placed before her 
eyes to keep off the rays of the sun, she 
looked towards the distant horizon and still 
continued her song. 

It seemed to me that this was the woman 
whose voice I had heard the night before 
on the sea-shure* I looked again towards 
the singer, but she had disappeared. A 
moment after she passed rapidly before me, 
singing another song and snapping her 
fingers, She went to the old woman and 
said something to her. The old woman 
seemed annoyed. The young girl burst 
into a laugh, Then, with a bound , she 
came close to me, suddenly stopped and 
looked at me fixedly, as though surprised 
to see me. Then turning away with an 
air of indifference, she walked quietly to- 
wards the shore. 

But her manoeuvres were not yet at 
an end. All the rest of the day I saw her 
at short intervals, always singing and 
dancing. Strange creature ! There was 
nothing in her physiognomy to denote 
On the contrary, her eyes were 
intelligent and penetrating. They 
exercised on me a certain mag- 
netic influence, and seemed to 
expect a question. But when- 
ever I was on the point of speak- 
ing she took to flight with a sly 
smile on her lips. 

I had never seen such a woman 
before. She could scarcely be 
called beautiful ; but I have my 
own ideas on the subject of 
beauty. There was a thorough- 
bred look about her, and with 
women as with horses, there is 
nothing like breed, Jt can be 
recognised chiefly in the walk 
and in the shape of the hands 
and feet. The nose is also an 
important feature. In Russia 
regular noses are more rare than 
little feet. My siren must have 
been about eighteen years of age. 
What charmed me in her was 
the extraordinary suppleness of 
her figure, the singular move- 
ments of her head, and her long, 
fair hair, hanging down in waves of gold 
on her neck, and her nose, which was 
perfectly faj^ a | from 




In her sidelong glance there was some- 
thing dark and wild ; as there was some- 
thing fascinating in the pure lines of her 
nose. The light-hearted singer recalled 
to me the Mignon of Goethe, that fan- 
tastic creation of the German mind. Be- 
tween these two personages there was 
indeed a striking resemblance. The same 
sudden transitions from restless agitation 


to perfect calm ; the same enigmatic words 
and the same songs. 

Towards the evening I stopped mv 
Undine at the door of the hut, and said 
to her : 

11 Tell me, my pretty one, what you 
were doing to-day on the roof? " 

i; I was seeing in what direction the 
wind blew/' 

li How did that concern you ? " 

"Whence blows the wind, thence comes 
happiness. " 

M And your singing wa- h> briny y<m 
goo J fortune ? " 

11 Where singing i* heard, there i.-* 

J ° y "" Digitized by GoOglc 

11 But what should you say if your sing- 
ing caused unhappiness ? " 

"If unhappiness arrives it must be 
borne, And from grief to joy the distance 
is not great." 

44 Who taught you these songs ? ,? 
11 No one ; I dream and I sing ; those 
who understand me listen to me, and those 
who do not listen to me cannot understand 

l( What is your name ? r * 
" Ask those who baptized me." 
44 And who baptized you ? " 
"I do not know." 
14 Ah ! you are very mysterious ; 
but I know something about 

There was no sign of emotion 
on her face ; her lips did not 

*' Last night/' I continued, 
"ivou were on the sea -shore." 
Then I told her the scene I had 
witnessed. I thought this would 
have caused her to evince some 
symptom of anxiety, but it had 
no such effect. 

" You assisted at a curious 
interview,' 1 she said to me with 
a laugh, 44 but you do not know 
much, and what you do know 
you had better keep under lock 
and key, as you would keep some 
precious treasure." 

44 But if," I continued, with a 
#rave and almost menacing ain 
u I were to relate what I saw to 
the eommandant ? " 

At these words she darted 
away, singing, and disappeared 
like a frightened bird, I was 
wrong in addressing this threat 
to her. At the moment I did 
not understand all its gravity. 

The night came. I told my Cossack to 
prepare the tea urn T lighted a wax candle, 
and sat down at the table, smoking my long 
pipe. I was drinking my tea when the 
door opened, and I heard the rustling of a 
dress. I rose hastily and recognised my 

She sat down silently before me, and 
fixed me with a look which made me trem- 
ble ; one of those magical looks which had 
troubled my life in earlier days. She 
seemed to expect me to speak to her, bul 
siime undefinable emotion deprived me or 
the facultv uf speech. Her countenance 
was as pale ac death. In this paleness I 




thought I could see the agitation of 
her heart. Her fingers struck mechani- 
cally on the tabic ; her body seemed 
to shudder ; her bosom rose violently 
and the moment afterwards seemed com- 

This species of comedy tired me at laM, 
and I was about to bring it to an end, in 
the most prosaic manner, by offering my 
fair visitor a cup of tea ; when suddenly 
she rose, and taking my head in her 
hands, gazed at me with all the apoearance 
of passionate tenderness. 

A cloud covered my eyes", 
and I wished in my turn 
to kiss her, but she escaped 
like a snake, murmuring as 
she did so, u To-night, when 
everything is quiet, meet me 
on the shore/' Then she 
disappeared, upsetting as 
she did so my tea-urn and 
my solitary light. 

14 She is the very mis- 
chief ! " cried my Cossack, 
who had been looking out 
for his share of the tea. 

He then lay down on his 
bench ; and gradually my 
agitation subsided. 

* 4 Listen," I said to him. 
k ' If you hear a pistol-shot, 
hurry down as fast as you 
can to the shore/* 

He rubbed his eyes, and 
replied mechanically, b ' Yes t 

I plae -d my pistol in my 
belt T and went out. The 
Mfen was waiting for me at 
the top of the path leading 
down to the sea r lightly clad 
in a stuff which clung to her 
wai^t like a scarf. 

" Follow me," she said* 
taking me by the hand. 

We walked down the rocky path in such 
a manner that I cannot understand how I 
failed to break my neck. Thai we turned 
sharply to the right, as the blind boy had 
done the night before. The moon was not 
yet up. Two little stars, like the fires of 
lighthouses, relieved the darkness. The 
agitated waves lifted and let fall in regular 
cadence a solitary boat close to the shore, 

'* Get in, n she said, I hesitated, for I 
confess that I have not the least taste for 
-on ti mental excursions on the sea. Rut it 
wa> impossible to refuse. She leapt into 

Digitized by VjOOQ IC 

the bark, I followed her, and off we 

u What does all this mean ? ?1 I said 
getting angry. 

" It means/* she replied, making me sit 
down on a bench, and putting her arms 
round my waist , u it means that I love you. 1 ' 
Her burning cheek was close to mine, and 
I felt her hot breath on my face. Suddenly 
I heard something fall into the water. 
Instinctively my hand went to my belt. 
The pistol was no longer there ! 

1 MlKfcW NEK IM'u THK S*A. 

A horrible suspicion seized me, The 
blood rushed to my brain. I looked at 
her, We were far from the shore and I 
could not swim. I tried to escape from her 
embrace, but she clung to me like a eat, 
and almost succeeded by a sudden jerk in 
throwing me out of the boat, which was 
already on one side. I contrived, however, 
to restore the equilibrium ; and then began, 
between my perfidious companion and my- 
self, a desperate struggle, in which I em- 
ployed all my strength . while feeling that 
the ahominahfr treature was overcoming me 
by her *igi©o"q i n a I from 


il What do you mean ? " I said to her, 
squeezing her little hands so tightly that I 
heard her fingers crack ; but whatever pain 
I may have caused her she did not utter a 
word. Her reptile nature could not thus 
be overcome. 

" You saw us," she cried at last. " You 
want to denounce us." Then by a rapid and 
violent effort she threw me down. Her body 
and mine were now bending over the side of 
the frail craft, and her hair was in the water. 
The moment was a critical one. I got up 
on my knees, took her with one hand by 
the hair, with the other by the throat, and 
when I had at last compelled her to un- 
ci utch my clothes, I threw her into the 

Twice her head reappeared above the 
foaming waves. Then I saw her no more. 

In the bottom of the boat I found an old 
oar, with which, after much labour, I 
succeeded in getting to the shore. As I 
walked back to the hut by the path leading 
to the sea, I looked towards the place where 
the night before the blind boy had been 
awaiting the arrival of the sailor. The 
moon at this moment was shining in the 
sky, and I fancied I could discern on the 
seashore a white figure. Filled with curio- 
sity, I concealed myself behind a sort of 
promontory, from which I could remark 
what was going on around me. What was 
my surprise, and I almost say my joy, when 
I saw that the white figure was my naiad ? 
She was wringing the water out of her long, 
fair locks, and her wet dress clung to her 
body. A boat, which I could just see in 
the distance, was coming towards us. Out 
of it sprang the same boatman whom I had 
seen the night before, with the same Tartar 
cap. I now saw that his hair was cut in 
the Cossack fashion, and that from his 
girdle hung a large knife. 

" Janko," cried the young girl, " all is 
lost." " 

Then they began to talk, but in so low a 
voice that I could not hear them. 

" Where is the blind boy ? " said Janko 
at last, raising his voice. 

" He will be here soon," was the answer. 

At that very moment the blind boy 
appeared, carrying on his back a packet, 
which he placed in the bark. 

" Listen," said Janko, " keep a good 
watch here ; the things you know are 
valuable. Tell " — (here a name was uttered 

which I could not catch) "that I am nd 
longer in his service. Things have taken 
a bad turn. He will see me no more. The 
situation is so dangerous that I must get 
something to do elsewhere. He will not 
find such another very easily. You 
may add that, if he had rewarded more 
liberally the dangerous services rendered 
to him, Janko would not have left him in 
the lurch. If he wants to know where to 
find me — where the wind howls, where the 
sea foams, that is where I am at home." 

After a moment's silence, Janko went 
on : " Say she accompanies me. She can- 
not remain here. Tell the old woman that 
she has done her time, and that she ought 
to be satisfied. We shall not see her again." 

" And I ? " murmured the blind boy. 

" I cannot be troubled about you." 

The young girl leapt into the boat, and 
with her hand made a sign to her com- 

11 Here," he said to the blind boy, " that 
will do to buy a gingerbread." 

" Nothing more ? " replied the child. 

" Yes, take this," and a piece of money 
fell upon the sands. 

The blind boy did not pick it up. 

Janko took his place in the boat. The 
blind boy remained sitting down on the 
seashore, and he seemed to be crying. 
Poor fellow ! his grief afflicted me. Why 
had fate thrown me in the midst of this 
peaceful circle of smugglers ? As a stone 
troubles the water, I had brought disorder 
into these lives, and like the stone, more- 
over, I had very nearly sunk. 

When I got back to the cabin, my Cos- 
sack was so fast asleep th^t it would have 
been cruel to disturb him. I lighted the 
candle, and saw that my little box con- 
taining my valuables, my sabre with silver 
mountings, my Circassian dagger (given 
to me by a friend), had all been carried off. 
I now r understood what the packet placed 
in the boat by the blind boy must have 

I woke up my Cossack with a blow, re- 
proached him for his negligence, and fairly 
lost my temper. But my anger could not 
make me find what I had lost. 

And how could I complain to the authori- 
ties ? Should not I have been laughed at 
if I had told them that I had been robbed 
by a blind boy, and almost drowned by a 
young girl ? 

by Google 

Original from 

The Maid of Treppi' 

Fkum thk G human of Pall Hevse, 

[PAUL HEYSE, the greatest German novelist now living, was born in 1830, at Berlin. His father was a 
celebrated scholar and professor at ihe University ; and he himself, while still a student, undertook a special 
tour in Italy in order to examine miinuscri|Hs in the libraries of Florence, Rome, und Venice* He was only 
l wen ty -four, when King M-iximilinn of Bavaria invited him to Munich, where he married the daughter of the 
eminent art critic, Frame Kugler, and where he has ever since resided. He had already turned from the dry 
bones of scholarship to the more congenial task of writing dramas, poems, and romances. His short stories— 
of which u The Maid of Treppi n is an excellent example— are his best achievements, and iire full of passion, 
character, and romantic charm.] 


"*N the summit of the Apen- 
nines, just between Tuscany 
and the northern part of the 
States of the Church, there lies 
a solitary little village called 
Treppi* Th epathsthatlead 
up to it are not fit for driving. Some miles 
further south the road for the post and 
u vetturine" goes winding through the 
mountai 11 s . 
None but the 
peasants who 
have to deal 
with the shep- 
herds pass by 
Treppi ; occa- 
sionally, too, a 
painter or ped- 
estrian anxious 
to avoid the 
highroad , and at 
night the smug- 
glers with their 
pack-mutes, who, 
better than any- 
one, know of 
wild rocky paths 
by which to 
reach the solitary 
little village at 
w h i c h they 
make but a short 

It was towards 
the middle of 
October t a sea* 
son when up in 
those heights 
the nights are 
still very clear 
and bright. But 
after the burn- 
ing hot sun of the 
mist rose up from 



in question, a fine 
ravine, and spread 

l: ravine, ana sprcj 


itself slowly over the bare but noble- 
looking rocks of the highland, It was 
about nine in the evening. A faint light 
from the fires was still visible in the 
scattered low stone huts r which , during the 
day, were taken care of by the oldest 
women and the youngest children only. 
The shepherds with their families lay 
sleeping round the hearths where the great 
kettles were swinging ; the dogs had 
stretched themselves amongst the ashes ; 

one sleepless old 
grandmoth e r 
still sat upon a 
heap of skins, 
moving to and 
fro her spindle, 
and muttering a 
prayer or rock- 
ing a restless 
child in its cra- 
dle. The damp, 
autumnal night 
breeze came in 
through large 
crevices in the 
walls, and the 
smoke from the 
expiring flames 
on the hearth 
encountering the 
mist was forced 
back heavily and 
thickly, and 
floated beneath 
the ceiling of 
the hut without 
seeming to in- 
convenience the 
o 1 d w oman, 
Presently she, 
too, slept as well 
as she could, 
but with wide uput eye>. 

In one Cfr^ffiatfftffii the dwellers were 





still stirring. Like the other houses it 
had only one storey, but tjie stones were 
better put together, the door was broader 
and higher, and adjoining the large square 
formed by the actual dwelling house were 
various sheds, extra rooms, stables, and a 
well-built brick oven. A group of well- 
laden horses stood before the door ; one of 
the farm servants was just removing the 
empty mangers, while six or seven armed 
men emerged from the house into the fog 
and began hastily getting their steeds 
ready. A very ancient dog, lying near the 
door, merely wagged its tail at their depar- 
ture. Then he raised himself wearily from 
the ground and went slowly into the hut, 
where the fire was still burning brightly. 

His mistress stood by the hearth, turned 
towards the fire ; her stately form was 
motionless, her arms hanging loosely at her 
sides. When the dog gently rubbed his 
nose in her hand, she turned round as 
though startled out of some dream. 
44 Fuoco," she said, " poor fellow, go to 
bed, you are ill ! " The dog whined and 
wagged its tail gratefully. Then he crept 
on to an old skin by the hearth, and lay 
down coughing and moaning. 

Meanwhile a few menservants had come 
in and seated themselves round the large 
table on which stood the dishes left by the 
departing smugglers. An old maid-servant 
filled these again with polenta out of the 
big kettle, and taking her spoon sat down 
and joined the others. Not a word was 
spoken whilst they were eating ; the flames 
crackled, the dog growled hoarsely in his 
sleep, the grave and solemn girl sitting on 
the stone slab by the hearth left untouched 
the little dish of polenta specially put there 
for her by the old maid, and gazed about the 
room buried in thought. In front of the 
door the fog was like a dense white wall. 
But at that moment the half-moon appeared, 
rising above the edge of the rock. 

Then there was a sound of horses' hoofs 
and footsteps approaching up the path. 
41 Pietro ! " called out the young mistress of 
the house in quiet but admonishing tones. 
A tall young fellow immediately got up 
from the table and disappeared into the fog. 

Steps and voices were heard drawing 
nearer, till the horse stopped at the door. 
After a pause, three men appeared in the 
doorway and entered with a brief greeting. 
Pietro went up to the girl who was gazing 
at the fire without showing the slightest 
interest. " These are two men from Por- 
rctta," he said to her, " without any wares ; 

Digitized by t_^OOQ IC 

they are conducting a gentleman across the 
mountains ; his passport is not quite in 

" Nina ! " called the girl. The old maid- 
servant got up and went across to the 

" It is not only that they want something 
to eat,' Padrona," continued the man, " can 
the gentleman have a bed for the night ? 
He does not wish to go further before day- 
break.' ' 

" Get ready a bed of straw for him in 
the chamber." Pietro nodded and went 
back to the table. 

The three new arrivals had seated them- 
selves without any particular attention being 
paid to them on the part of the servants. Two 
of them were contrabandists, well armed, 
their jackets thrown carelessly across their 
shoulders, and hats pushed well down over 
their brows. They nodded to the others 
as though they were old acquaintances, and 
leaving a good space between their com- 
panion and themselves they crossed them- 
selves and began to eat. 

The traveller who had come with them 
ate nothing. He removed his hat from a 
rather high forehead, passed his hand 
through his hair, and let his eyes survey 
the place and company. He read the pious 
proverbs traced with charcoal on the walls, 
looked at the picture of the Virgin with its 
little lamp in the corner, the hens sleeping 
beside it on their perches, then at the heads 
of maize hanging on a string from the 
ceiling, at a shelf with bottles, and jars, and 
skins, and baskets, all heaped up together. 
At last his eyes were attracted by the girl at 
the hearth. Her dark profile stood out 
clear and beautiful against the flickering 
red of the fire. A great nest of black plaits 
lay low on her neck, and her joined hands 
were clasped round one knee, while the 
other foot rested on the rocky floor of the 
room. He could not tell how old she was, 
but he could see from her manner that she 
was the mistress of the house. 

" Have you any wine in the house, 
Padrona ? " he asked at last. 

Hardly were the words out of his mouth 
before the girl started as though struck by 
lightning, and stood upright on the hearth, 
leaning with both arms on the slab. At 
the same moment the dog woke up out of 
his sleep, a savage growl issuing from his 
wheezing chest. Suddenly the stranger saw 
four fiery eyes fixed on him. 

"May one not ask whether you have 
any wine <ifti^h'Pa|lpP?' l - c i Padrona ? " he 



repeated. The last word was still unspoken 
when the dog, in quite inexplicable fury, 
rushed at him, barking loudly, seized his 
cloak with his teeth, and tore it from his 
shoulder, and would have flown at him 
again if his mistress had not promptly called 
him off. 

" Down, Fuoco, down ! Quiet ! Quiet ! ,f 
The dog stood in the middle of the room, 
whiskhg his tail angrily, and keeping 
his eye on the stranger. " Shut him up in 
the stable, Pietro ! ?1 said the girl in an 
undertone, She still stood petrified by 
the hearth, and repeated her order, seeing 
Pietro hesitate. For many years the old 
dog's nightly resting place had been by the 
fireside. The men all whispered together 
as the dog followed most reluctantly, howl- 
ing and barking terribly outside until at 
last he seemed to stop from sheer exhaustion. 

Meanwhile, at a sign from her mistress, 
the maid had brought in the wine, 

The men raised their hats respectfully, 
and got up. One of them went up to the 
hearth, and said ; — 

" I have a greeting for you, Padrona, 
from Co stan zo of Bologna ; he wants to 
know if he forgot his knife here Last Satur- 

"No," she answered shortly and im- 

u I told him you would certainly have 
sent it baek to him if it had been left here* 
And l hen— " 

" Nina/* interrupted the girl, " show them 
the way to their room, in ease they have 
forgotten it." 

The maid got up from her seat, %i I only 
wanted to tell you, Padrona," continued the 
man with great calmness and a slight 


to his companions, and meditated in silence 
on the very extraordinary scene he had un- 
consciously been the cause of. One after 
another the men laid down their spoons, 
and went out with a " Good-night t 
Padrona ! " At last the three were left 
alone with the hostess and the old maid, 

** The sun rises at four o'clock/' said one 
of the smugglers in an undertone to the 
stranger. ** Your Excellency need not rise 
any earlier— we shall reach Pistoja in good 
time. Resides, we must think of the horse, 
which must have six hours' rest.'* 

" Very well, my friends. Go to bed ! " 
'* We will waken your Excellency." 
14 Do m> in any case/ 1 answered the 
stranger, ,l although the Madonna knows 
I do not often sleep six hours at a stretch. 

Baccio I 

Carlone ; good-night, Master 

by Google 

blinking of the eyes, " that the gentleman 
there would not grudge the money if you 
give him a softer bed than what we get. 
That is what I wanted to say, Padrona, and 
now may the Madonna give you a good 
night, Signora Fenice ! ?J 

Thereupon he turned to his companion, 
and both bowing before the picture in the 
corner they crossed themselves and left the 
room with the maid. * l Good night, Nina ! tT 
called out the girh The old woman turned 
on the threshold and made a sign of inquiry ; 
then quickly and obediently closed the 
door after her. 

Hardly were they alone before Fen ice 
took up a brass lamp which stood by the 
fireside and lit it hurriedly. The flames 
from the hearth were gradually dying out, 
and the three little red flames of the lamp 
only sufficed to li^ht up quite a Miiall por* 




tion of the large room. It seemed as though 
the darkness had made the stranger sleepy, 
for he sat at the table with his head bowed 
on his arms, his cloak well wrapped round 
him, as if he intended passing the night 
there. Then he heard his name called, and 
looked up. The lamp was burning before 
him on the table, and opposite stood the 
young hostess who had called him. Her 
glance met his with the utmost firmness. 
4i Filippo," she said, " do you not know 

me again 

? " 

For a short time he gazed inquiringly 
into the beautiful face which glowed partly 
from the rays of the lamp and partly from 
fear as to what would be the answer to her 
question. The face was indeed one worthy 
to be remembered. The long silky eye- 
lashes as they rose and fell softened the 
severity of the forehead and delicately-cut 
nose. The mouth was rosy — red in freshest 
youth ; save only when silent there was a 
touch of mingled grief, resignation, and 
fierceness not gainsayed by the black eyes 
above. And as she stood there by the table 
the charm of her figure, and especially the 
beauty of her head and neck, were plainly 
visible. Still, however, after some con- 
sideration, Filippo merely said : 

" I really do not know you, Padrona ! " 

44 It is impossible," she answered in a 
strange low tone of certainty. i4 You have 
had time these seven years to keep me in your 
memory. It is a long time — long enough 
for a picture to be imprinted on the mind." 

It was only then that the strange words 
seemed fully to rouse him out of his own 

44 Indeed, fair maid," he answered, 44 he 
who for seven years has nothing else to do 
but think of one fair girl's face, must end 
at last in knowing it by heart." 

44 Yes," she said meditatively, 44 that is it ; 
that is just what you used to say, that you 
would think of nothing else." 

4 Seven years ago ? I was a gay and 
merry youth seven years ago. And you 
seriously believed that ? " 

She nodded gravely three times. 41 Why 
should I not believe it ? My own experience 
shows me that you were right." 

44 Child," he said, with a good-natured 
look that suited his decided features, 44 1 am 
very sorry for that. I suppose seven years 
ago I thought all women knew that the 
tender speeches of a man were worth about 
as much as counters in a game, which cer- 
tainly can b » exchanged for true gold, if 
exnre sly so iVJ and arranged so. How 

D igiiized by K* OO Q le 

much I thought of all you women seven 
years ago ! Now, I must honestly confess, 
I seldom think of you at all. Dear child, 
there is so much to think of far more 

She was silent, as though she did not un- 
derstand it all, and was quietly waiting 
till he should say something that really 
concerned her. 

After a pause, he said : 44 It seems to 
dawn upon me now that I have once before 
wandered through this part of the mountain. 
I might possibly have recognised the vil- 
lage and this house, if it had not been for 
the fog. Yes, indeed, it was certainly seven 
years ago that the doctor ordered me off to 
the mountains, and I, like a fool, used to 
rush up and down the steepest paths." 

44 1 knew it," she said, and a touching 
gleam of joy spread over her face. 44 1 
knew well you could not have forgotten 
it. Why, Fuoco, the dog, has not forgotten 
it and his old hatred of you in those bygone 
days — nor I, my old love." 

She said this with so much firmness and 
so cheerfully, that he looked up at her, 
more and more astonished. 

44 1 can remember now," he said, 44 there 
was a girl whom I met once on the summit 
of the Apennines, and she took me home 
to her parents' house. Otherwise, I should 
have been obliged to spend the night on the 
cliffs. I remember, too, she took my 
fancy " 

44 Yes," she interrupted, 44 very much." 

44 But I did not suit Arr. I had a long 
talk with her, when she hardly uttered ten 
words. And when I at last sought by a 
kiss to unseal her lovely sullen little 
mouth — I can see her before me now — how 
she darted to one side and picked up 
a stone in each hand, so that I hardly got 
away without being pelted. If you are 
that girl, then, how can you speak to me of 
your old love ?" 

44 1 was only fifteen then, Filippo, and I 
was very shy. I had always been very 
defiant, and left much alone, and I did not 
know how to express myself. And then I 
was afraid of my parents. They were still 
living then, as you can remember. My 
father owned all the flocks and herds, and 
this inn here. There are not many changes 
since then. Only that he is no longer here 
to look after it all — may his soul rest in 
Paradise ! But I felt most ashamed before 
my mother. Do you remember how you 
sat just at that very place and praised the 
wine that wc had erot. from PistoU ? I heard 

-„- I I l.| 1 1 ISi I II' JIM " 




no more. Mother looked at me sharply, 
and I went outside and hid myself by the 
window, that I might still look at you. You 
were younger, of course, but not any hand- 
somer. You have still the same eyes with 
which you then could win whomsoever you 
would, and the same deep voice that made 
the dog mad with jealousy, poor thing ! 
Until then I had loved him alone. He felt 
that I loved you more ; he felt it more than 
you did yourself." 

u Yes, he said, " he was like a mad crea- 
ture that night. It was a strange night ! 
You had certainly captivated me, Fenice, I 
know I could not rest because you did not 


come back to the house, and I got up and 
went to look for you outside. I saw the 
white kerchief on your head and then 
nothing more, for you fled tnto the room 
next the stable. Even now I feel ashamed 
when I think of the rage I was in as I went 
angrily away and lay the whole night 
through in one long dream of you, 1 ' 

" I sat up all through the dark night/' 
said she. " Towards morning sleep over- 
came me, and when at last I started up and 
saw the sun was high — what had become of 
you ? No one told me, and I dared not ask. 
I felt such a horror and dislike of seeing 
anyone, just as though they had killed you 

I lOOglC 

on purpose that I might never see you 
again. I ran right away, just as I was, up 
and down the mountains, sometimes calling 
aloud for you and sometimes abusing you, 
for I knew 1 could never love anyone 
again, and all through you. At last I 
descended to the plain ; then I tcr k fright 
and went home again. I had been away 
two days. My father beat me when I got 
back, and mother would not speak to nie. 
Well, they knew why I had run away. 
Fuoco the dog had been away with me, but 
whenever in my solitude I called aloud for 
you, he always howled.' 1 

There ensued a pause ; the eyes of each 
of them were fastened on the other. Then 
Ftlippo said : M How long is it since your 
parents died ? n 

u Three years. They both died in the 
same week — may their souls rest in Para- 
dise ! Then I went to Florence/' 

"To Florence ? *' 

14 Yes. You had told me you came from 
Florence. Some of the contrabandists sent 
me to the wife of the l caffetiere ' out at 
San Miniato. I lived there for a month, 
and used to send her into the town every 
day to ask for you. In the evening I went 
down to the town myself and sought you. 
At last we heard that you had Jong since 
gone away, but no one quite knew where.-' 

Filippo got up and paced the room with 
long strides. Fenice turned and followed 
him with her eyes, but she showed no signs 
of such emotion as he in his restlessness 
evinced. At last he approached, and look- 
ing at her for a little, said, li And wherefore 

^, my poor 

do you confess all this to me, 

11 Because I have had seven long years in 
which to summon up courage to do it. 
Ah ! if only I had confessed it to you then, 
this cowardly heart of mine would never 
have caused me such grief. I knew you 
would come again, Filippo, but I did not 
think you would have waited so long ; that 
grieved me. But it is childish of me to 
talk like this. What does it matter now 
all is past and over ? Here you are, Filippo, 
and here am I ; and lam yours for ever and 
ever ! " 

Li Dear child ! '■ said he softly ; but then 
was silent and kept back the words tremb- 
ling on his lips. She, however, did not 
notice how silent and absorbed he was as 
he stood thus before her, gazing above her 
head at the wall beyond. She went on 
talking quite calmly ; it was as though her 
own words were all well known to her, as 




if she had thousands of times pictured to 
herself: He will come again, and then I will 
say this or that to him. 

"Many have wanted to marry me, both 
up here and when I was in Florence. But 
I would have none but you. When any- 
one asked me, and made sweet speeches to 
me, at once I seemed to hear your voice 
that memorable night — your words, sweeter 
far than any words ever spoken on this 
earth. For many years now they have let 
me be in peace/ although I am not old 
or ugly, It is just as if they all 
knew that you were soon to come again." 
Then continuing: "And now, whither 
will you take mc ? Will you stay up here ? 

want to try me, Filippo ! You have no 
wife. The gipsy told mc that, too, But 
she could not tell me where you lived." 

" She was right, Fenice, I have no wife. 
But how could she or you tell that I ever 
intended to take one ? " 

11 How could you not want to take me ? ' J 
asked she in unwavering confidence* 

" Sit down here beside me, Fenice ! 
I have much to tell you. Give me youi 
hand. Promise me that you will hear me 
quietly and sensibly to the end." 

As she did not comply with his request, 
he continued with a beating heart, standing 
erect before her with his eyes fixed 
on her sadly, while hers, as though appre- 


But no, that would never do for .you* 
Since I have been to Florence I know that 
it is dull up in the mountains. We will 
sell the house and the flocks, and then I 
shall be rich, I have had enough of this 
wild life with the people here. At Florence 
they were obliged to teach me everything 
that was proper for a town maiden to know, 
and they were astonished that I understood 
it all so quickly* To be sure, I had not much 
time, and all my dreams told me that it 
would be up here that you would come to seek 
me. I have consulted a fortune-teller too, 
and it has all come to pass as she said." 
"And w T hat if I already have a wife ? " 
She looked at him in amazement. " You 

Digitized by G< 

bending danger to her life, were sometimes 
closed, and sometimes roamed restlessly 
about the room. 

" It is some years since 1 was obliged 
to fiee from Florence," he resumed. u You 
know, it was just the time of those political 
tumults, and they lasted a long time. lam 
a lawyer, and know a great many people, 
and I write and receive a quantity of letters 
throughout the year. Besides, 1 was inde- 
pendent, proclaimed my opinion when 
necessary, and was hated accordingly, 
although I never took part in any of their 
secret plots and plans. At last I was 
obliged to leave the country with nothing 
in prospect, if I did r\Qt wish to be im* 




prisoned, and go through endless trials. I 
went to Bologna, and lived there very 
quietly, attended to my own business, and 
saw very few people, least of all any 
women ; for nothing now is left of the mad 
youth whose heart you so grievously 
wounded seven years ago, save only that 
my head, or if you will, my heart, 
is fit to burst when I cannot overcome any 
difficulty in my path. You may, perhaps, 
have heard that Bologna is in an unsettled 
state, too, latterly. Men of high position 
have been arrested, and amongst them 
one whose life and habits have long been 
known to me, and of whom I knew that all 
such things were foreign to his mind. My 
friend asked me to undertake his case, and 
I helped him to liberty. Hardly was this 
made public, when one day a wretched in- 
dividual accosted me in the street, and 
loaded me with insults. He was drunk and 
unworthy of notice ; but I could not get rid 
of him otherwise than by giving him a blow 
on the chest. No sooner had I made my 
way out of the crowd and entered a cafl, 
when I was followed by a relative of 
his, not drunk with wine, but mad 
with rage and indignation. He ac- 
cused me of having retaliated with 
a blow instead of acting as every 
man of honour would have done. I 
answered him as moderately as I could, 
for I saw through the whole thing ; it 
was all arranged by the Government in 
order to render me powerless. But one word 
followed another, and my enemies at last 
won the day. The other man pretended 
that he was obliged to go to Tuscany, and 
insisted on having the affair settled 
there. I agreed to this, for it was high 
time that one of our prudent party should 
prove to the unruly ones that it was not 
want of courage that restrained us, but 
solely and entirely the hopelessness of all 
secret revolutionary movements, when op- 
posed to so superior a power. But when I 
applied for a passport the day before yes- 
terday, it was refused, without their even 
deigning to give me a reason for it ; I was 
told it was by order of the highest authori- 
ties. It was evident that they either wished 
to expose me to the disgrace of having 
shirked the duel, or else to force me to cross 
the frontier in some disguise, and thereby 
certainly cauSe my detention. Then they 
would have had an excuse for bringing an 
action against me, and letting it drag on as 
long as they thought fit." 
41 The wretches ! The ungodly sinners ! " 
Digitized by VtOOQ IC 

interrupted the girl, and clenched her 

" Nothing then was left me but to give 
myself up to the contrabandists at Porretta. 
They tell me we shall reach Pistoja to- 
morrow morning early. The duel is fixed 
for the afternoon in a garden outside the 

Suddenly she seized his hand in hers. "Do 
not go down there, Filippo," she said. "They 
will murder you." 

" Certainly they will, my child. But how 
do you know ? " 

" I feel it here and — here ! " and she 
pointed with her finger to her brow and heart. 

" You, too, are a fortune-teller, an 
enchantress," he continued, with a smile. 
" Yes, child, they will murder me. My 
adversary is the best shot in the whole 
of Tuscany. They have done me the 
honour of confronting me with a goodly 
enemy. Well, I shall not disgrace myself. 
But who knows whether it will be all fair 
play ? Who can tell ? Or can your magic 
arts foretell that too ? Yet what would be 
the use, child ! it would make no difference.** 

After a short silence he went on : " You 
must banish entirely from your thoughts 
any further encouragement of your former 
foolish love. Perhaps all this has come 
about so that I might not leave this world 
without first setting you free, free from 
yourself, poor child, and your unlucky 
constancy. Perhaps, too, you know, we 
should have suited each other badly. 
You have been true to quite a different 
Filippo, a young fellow full of vain desires 
and without a care save those of love. 
What would you do with such a brooding, 
solitary being as I ? " 

He drew near to her, muttering the 
last words as he walked up and down, and 
would have taken her hand, but was startled 
and shocked to see the expression of her face. 
All trace of softness had left her features, 
and her lips were ashy pale. 

" You do not love me," she said, slowly 
and huskily, as though another voice were 
speaking in her, and she were listening to 
hear what was meant. Then she pushed 
away his hand with a scream ; the little 
flames of the lamp were nearly blown out, 
and outside the dog began suddenly bark- 
ing and howling furiously. " You do not 
love me, no, no ! " she exclaimed, like one 
beside herself. "Would you rather go to 
the arms of death than come to me ? Can 
you meet me like this after seven years, 
only to say farewell ? Can you speak thus 




calmly of your death, knowing it will be 
mine too ? Better had it been for me had 
my eyes been blinded before they saw you 
again, and my ears deaf before they heard 
the cruel voice by which I live and die. 
Why did the dog not tear you to pieces 
before I knew that you had come to rend 
my heart ? Why did your foot not slip on 
the chasm's brink ? Alas ! woe is me ! 
Madonna, save me!" 

She flung herself down before the picture, 
her forehead bowed to the ground. Her 
hands were stretched out before her ; she 
seemed to pray. Her companion listened to 
the barking of the dog, and with it the mut- 
terings and groanings of the unhappy girl, 
while the moon increasing in power shone 
through the room. But before he could 
collect himself or utter a word he again 
felt her arms round his neck, and the hot 
tears falling on his face. 

" Do not go to meet your death, Filippo," 
sobbed the poor thing. "If you stay with me, 
who could find you ? Let them say what 
they will, the murderous pack, the malicious 
wretches, worse than Apennine wolves. 
Yes," she said, and looked up at him 
radiant through her tears, " you will stay with 
me ; the Madonna has given you to me that 
* I might save you. Filippo, I do not know 
what wicked words I may have spoken, but 
I feel they Were wicked ; I knew it by the 
cold chill they sent to my heart. Forgive 
me. It is a thought fit only for hell, that 
love can be forgotten, and faithful con- 
stancy crushed and destroyed. But now 
let us sit down and discuss everything. 
Would you like a new house ? We will 
build one. Other servants ? We will send 
these all away, Nina too, even the dog 
shall go. And if you still think that they 
might betray you — why, we will go away 
ourselves, to-day, now ; I know all the 
roads, and before the sun has risen we 
should be down in the valley away north- 
wards, and wander, wander on to Genoa, to 
Venice, or wherever you will." 

" Stop ! " said he harshly. " Enough of 
this folly. You cannot be my wife, Fenice. 
If they do not kill me to-morrow, it will 
only be put off a short time. I know how 
much I am in their way." And gently, but 
firmly, he loosed her arms from round his 

" See here, child," he continued, " it is 
sad enough as it is ; we do not need to make 
it harder to bear through our own foolish- 
ness. Perhaps when in years to come you 
hear of my death, you will look round 4t 

by LiOOgle 

your husband and your lovely children, and 
will feel thankful that he who is dead and 
gone was more sensible than you at this in- 
terview, although on that night of seven 
years ago, it may have been other- 
wise. Let me go to bed now, and go you 
too, and let us settle not to see each other 
to-morrow. Your reputation is a good one, 
as I heard from my companions on the way 
here. If we were to embrace to-morrow, 
and you made a scene — eh, dear child? 
And now — good-night, good-night, Fenice!" 

Then again he offered her his hand. But 
she would not take it. She looked as pale as 
ashes in the moonlight, and her eyebrows 
and downcast lashes seemed all the darker. 
" Have I not already suffered enough," she 
said in an undertone, " for having acted 
too coyly that one night seven long years 
ago ? And now he would again make me 
miserable with this wretched prudence, and 
this time my misery would last to all 
eternity ! No, no, no ! I will not let him 
go — I should be disgraced in the eyes of all 
if I let him go and he were to die." 

" Do you not understand that I wish to 
sleep now, girl," he interrupted angrily, 
" and to be alone ? Why do you go on 
talking in this wild fashion and making 
yourself ill ? If you do not feel that my 
honour forces me to leave you, then you 
would never have suited me. I am no 
doll in your lap to fondle and play with. 
My path is cut out for me, and it is too 
narrow for two. Show me the skin on 
which I am to lie to-night ; and then — let 
us forget one another ! " 

44 And if you were to drive me from you 
with blows I will not leave you ! If death 
were to come and stand between us, I would 
rescue you from him with these strong arms 
of mine. In life and death — you are mine, 
Filippo ! " 

44 Silence ! " cried he, very loudly. The 
colour rushed to his very brow as he with 
both arms pushed the passionate pleader 
from him. t4 Silence ! And let there be 
an end of this, to-day, and for ever. Am I 
a creature or thing to be seized upon by 
whoever will and whoever takes a fancy to 
me ? I am a man, and whoever would have 
me I must give myself up to freely. You 
have sighed for me for seven years — have 
you any right therefore in the eighth year 
to make me act to my dishonour? If 
you would bribe me, you have chosen the 
means ill. Seven years ago I loved you 
because you were different from what you 
now are. If you had flown round my neck 

u\ I I '.' I I I 




then and sought to wrest my heart from 
me with threats, I would have met your 
threats with defiance as I do to-day. All 
is over now between us, and I know that 
the pity I felt for you was not love. For 
the last time, where is my room ? " 

He had said all this in harsh and cutting 
tones, and as he stopped speaking the sound 
of his own voice seemed to give him a pang. 
But he said no more, though wondering 
silently that she took it much more quietly 
than he had expected. He would gladly 
now, with friendly words, have appeased 
any stormy outbreak of her grief. But she 
passed coldly by him, opened a heavy 
wooden door not far from the hearth. 


pointed silently to the iron bolt on it t and 
then stepped back again to the fireside. 

So he went into the room and bolted the 
door behind him. But he stayed for some 
time close by the door, listening to what 
she was doing. No movement was heard 
in the room, and in the whole house there 
was no sound save from the restless dog, the 
horse stirring in the stable, and the moan- 
ing of the wind outside as it scattered the 
last remains of the fog. For the moon in 
all its splendour had risen, and when he 
pulled away a large bundle of heather out 
of the hole in the wall that served as 
a window, the room was lit up by its 
rays. He saw then that he was evi- 
dently in Fenice's room. Against the wall 
stood her cteanj narrow bed, an open chest 



beside it, a small table, a wooden bench ; 
the walls were hung with pictures, saint* 
and Madonnas ; a holy water bowl was seen 
beneath the crucifix by the door. 

He sat himself down on the hard bed, 
and felt that a storm was raging within him. 
Once or twice he half rose up to hasten to 
her and tell he- that he had only thus 
wounded her in crder to comfort her after- 
wards. Then he stamped on the floor, 
vexed at his own soft -he art edn ess, lt It is 
the only thing left for me to do," he said to 
himself, " unless I would add to my guilt. 
Seven years* poor child ! " Mechanically 
he took in his hand a comb ornamented 
with little pieces of metal that was lying 
on the table. This recalled to him her 
splendid hair, the proud neck on which it 
lay, the noble brow round which the curls 
clustered, and the dusky cheek. At last he 
tossed the tempting object into the chest, 
in which he saw dresses, kerchiefs, and all 
sorts of little ornaments neatly and tidily 
put away. Slowly he let fall the lid and 
turned to look out at the hole in the wall. 

The room was at the back of the house, 
and none of the other huts in Treppi inter- 
fered with the view across the mountains. 
Opposite was the bare ridge of rock rising 
up from behind the ravine, and all lit up 
by the moon, then just over the house. On 
one side were some sheds, past which ran 
the road leading down to the plain. One 
forlorn little fir-tree, with bare branches, 
was growing among the stones ; otherwise 
the ground was covered with heather only, 
and here and there a miserable bush. 
"Certainly," thought he, "this is not the 
place to forget what one has loved, I would 
it were otherwise. In truth, she would 
have been the right wife for me ; she would 
have loved me more than dress and gaiety, 
and the whisperings of gallants. What 
eyes my old Marco would make if I sud- 
denly came back from my travels with a 
lovely wife ! We should not need to 
change the house ; the empty corners were 
always so uncanny. And it would do me 
good, old grumbler that I am, if a laughing 

child -but this is folly, Filippo, folly ! 

What would the poor thing do left a widow 
in Bologna ? No, no ! no more of this ! 
Let me not add a fresh sin to the old ones. 
I will wake the men an hour earlier, and 
steal away before anyone is up in Treppi/' 

He was just going to move away from 
the window and stretch his limbs! wearied 
from the long ride, on the bed, when he 
saw a woman's figure step out from the 




shadow of the house into the moonlight. 
She never turned her head, but he did not 
for a moment doubt that it was Fenice. 
She walked away from the house with slow, 
steady steps down the road leading to the 
ravine, A shudder ran through his frame 
as at that moment the thought flashed 
across his mind that she would do herself 
some injury. Without stopping to think, 
he flew to the door and pulled violently at 
the bolt, But the rusty old iron had stuck 
so obstinately fast in its place that he spent 
all his strength in vain. The cold sweat 
stood on his brow ; he shouted and shook 
and heat the door with fists and feet, hut 

ever, it was so uncanny, He stretched his 
head far out of the opening, but could see 
nothing save the still night in the moun- 
tains. Suddenly there was a short, sharp 
howl, then a low convulsive groan from the 
dog, but after that, though he listened long 
and anxiously, not another sound the whole 
night through, save that the door of the 
adjoining room was opened and Fen ice's 
step was heard on the stone floor. In vain 
he stood for long at the bolted door, listen- 
ing at first, then asking and begging and im- 
ploring the girl for one little word only — all 
remained still and quiet. 

At length he threw himself on the bed in 


t r 


it did not yield. At last he gave up, 
and rushed back again to the window, 
Already one of the stones had given way 
to his fury, when suddenly he saw the 
figure of the girl reappear on the road 
and come towards the hut. She had 
something in her hand, but in the uncertain 
light he could not make out what it was, 
but he could see her face distinctly- It was 
grave and thoughtful — no trace of passion in 
it. Not a single glance did she send to his 
window, and disappeared again into the shade. 
As he still stood there and drew a deep 
breath after his fright and exertion, he 
heard a great noise which seemed to come 
from the old dog, but it was no barking or 
whining. This puzzled ^im mor? thaq 

by Google 

a fever, and lay awake thinking and think- 
ing, till at last the moon went down an hour 
after midnight, and fatigue conquered his 
thousand fleeting thoughts. But still in his 
uneasy slumber he seemed to see the lovely 
face continually before his eyes, and to heir 
the pleading and impassioned voice still 
ringing in his ears. 

When he awoke next morning, the light 
around him was dim ; but as he raised himself 
from the bed and collected his thoughts, he 
was aware that it was not the dim light of 
dawn* On one side a faint ray of sunlight 
reached him, and he soon ^aw that the hole in 
the wall which he had left open before he fell 
asleep, had, nevertheless, been filled up again 
with branches. He pushed then; out, and w^s 




dazzled by the bright rays of the morning 
sun. In a towering rage with the contra- 
bandists, with himself for having slept, but 
above all with the girl to whom he attri- 
buted this treachery, he hurried to the door, 
the bolt of which yielded easily to his pres- 
sure, and stepped out into the other room. 

He found Fenice there alone, sitting 
quietly by the fire, as though she had long 
been expecting him. Every trace of the 
stormy scenes of the day before had left her 
face ; no sign of any grief, and no mark of 
any painfully acquired composure, met his 
stern glance. 

"This is your fault," he said, angrily, 
11 my sleeping beyond the time. 1 ' 

" ¥e«, it is," she answered, indifferently. 
" You were tired. You will reach Pistoja 
early enough, if you do not need to meet 
your murderers before the afternoon." 

" I did not ask you to take heed of my 
fatigue. Do you still mean to force your- 
self on me ? It will avail you nothing, girl. 
Where are my men ? " 


41 Gone ? Would you make a fool of me ? 
Where are they ? As if they would go 
away before I paid them ! " And he strode 
rapidly to the door, thinking to leave. 

Fenice remained sitting where she was, 
and said, in the same placid voice : " I have 
paid them. I told them that you needed 
sleep, and also that I would accompany you 
down the mountain myself ; for my supply 
of wine is at an end, and I must buy fresn 
at about an hour's distance from Pistoja." 

For a moment he was speechless with 
rage. " No," he burst out at last, " not with 
you ; never again with you ! It is absurd 
for you to think that you can still en- 
tangle me in your smooth meshes. We 
are now more completely parted than ever. 
I despise you, that you should think me 
soft and weak enough to be won by these 
poor devices. I will not go with you ! Let 
one of your men go with me ; and here — 
pay yourself what you gave to the contra- 

He flung a purse to her, and opened the 
door to look for some one who could 
. show him the way down. " Do not trouble 
yourself," she said, " you will not find any 
of the men ; they are all in the mountains. 
And there is nobody in Treppi who can be 
of use to you. Poor feeble old women and 
men, and children who have to be taken 
care of themselves. If you do not believe 
me — go and look ! " 

11 And altogether," she went on, as he, in 

Digitized by CiOOgJC 

vexation and anger, stood undecided in the 
doorway, turning his back to her, " why 
does it seem to you so impossible and so 
dangerous for me to be your guide ? I had 
dreams last night, from which I can tell 
that you are not destined for me. It is true 
enough that I still have a liking for you, 
and it would be a pleasure to me to have a 
few more hours' talk with you. But I do 
not, on that account, wish to intrude. You 
are free to go from me for ever, and wher- 
ever you will, to death or to life. Only I 
have so arranged it that I may walk beside 
you part of the way. I swear to you, if it 
will ease your mind, that it will only be 
part of the way— on my honour, not as far 
as Pistoja. Only just until I have put you 
in the right direction. For if you were to 
go away alone, you would lose your way, 
and would neither get forward nor back- 
ward. Surely you must remember that, 
from your first journey in the mountains." 

" Plague upon it ! " muttered he, biting 
his lips. He saw, however, that the sun 
was getting higher, and all things well 
considered, what grave cause for fear had 
he ? He turned to her, and thought, from 
the indifferent look in her large eyes, that 
he could take it for granted there was no 
treachery hidden in her words. She really 
seemed to him to be a different person from 
the day before ; and there was almost a feel- 
ing of discontent mingled with his surprise 
as he was forced to allow that her fit of grief 
and passion on the preceding day had passed 
away so soon, and left no trace. He looked 
at her for some time, but she did not in 
any way arouse his suspicions. 

44 Well," he said dryly, " since you have 
become so very prudent, let us start. Come ! " 

Without any particular sign of delight 
she got up, and said : 44 We must eat first ; 
we shall get nothing for many hours." 
She put a dish before him and a pitcher, 
and ate something herself, standing at the 
hearth, but did not touch a drop of wine. 
But he, to get it over, ate some spoonfuls, 
dashed down the wine, and lit his cigar 
from the ashes on the hearth. All this 
time he had not deigned to look at her, 
but when he chanced to look up, standing 
near her, he saw a strange red in her cheeks, 
and something like triumph in her eyesl 
She now rose hurriedly, seized the pitcher, 
and, flinging it on the stone floor, shattered 
it at a blow. 44 No one shall ever drink out 
of it again," she said, " after your lips have 
touched it." 

He started up in alarm, and > for a secondj 




the suspicion crossed his mind : u Has she 
poisoned me ? " but then he chose to 
think that it was the last remains of her 
lovesick idolatry which she had forsworn, 
and without further comment he followed 
her out of the house. 

" They took the horse back with them to 
Porretta," she said to him outside, as he 
seened to be searching for it. M You would 
not have been able to ride down without 
danger- They 
are steeper roads 
than those of 

Then she 
went on before 
him, and they 
soon left behind 
them the huts, 
which, deserted 
and without the 
faintest cloud of 
smoke from the 
chimneys, stood 
out clear in the 
bright sun. It 
was then only 
that Filippo be- 
came fully aware 
of the majestic 
scenery of this 
desolate place, 
with the clear 
transparent sky 
above it. The 
path, now hardly 
visible, like a 
faint track in 
the hard rock, 
ran northward 
the broad ridge 

here and there, where 
there was a bend in 
the opposite parallel 
ranga of mountains, a 
narrow strip of sea 
shone in the far hori- 
zon to the left, There was stilt no sign of 
vegetation, far or near, except the hard 
and stunted mountain plants and inter- 
woven bush and bramble. But then they 
left the summit, and descended into the 
ravine, which had to be crossed in order to 
climb the rocky ridge on the other side. 
Here they soon came upon fir-trees, and 
streams, which flowed into the glen ; and far 
below tr*?m they heard the roaring of the 
water. Fenice now went on in front, 
stepping with sure feet upon the safest 

Digitized by G* 

stones, without looking round, or uttering 
a single word. He could not help letting 
his eyes rest on her, and admiring the 
graceful strength of her limbs* Her fac^ 
was entirely hidden from him by the great 
white kerchief on her head, but when it so 
chanced that they walked side by side, he 
had to force himself to look before him, 
and away from her, so greatly was he 
attracted by the wondrous regularity of her 
features. It was only when 
in the full light of the sun 
that he noticed her strangely 
child- like expression, with- 
out being able to say 
wherein it lay. It was 
as though for the last 
seven years something 
had remained rnaltered 
in her face, while 
all else had 
grown and de- 

At last he 
began to talk to 
her of his own 
accord, and she 
answered him in 
a sensible and 
even easy way. 
Only that her 
voice, which as 
a rule was not 
so dull and harsh 
as is the case 
with the gene* 
rality of the 
women in the 
sounded to him 
monotonous and 
sad, though only 
speaking of the 
most indifferent 
While thus 
talking, Filippo 
never noticed how the sun had climbed 
higher and higher and still no glimpse of the 
Tuscan plains came in view. Neither did he 
give a thought to what awaited him at the 
close of the day. It was so refreshing to be 
walking along the thickly wooded paths, 
fifty paces above the waterfall, to feel the 
spray sometimes reach him, to watch the 
lizards darting over the stones, and the 
fluttering butterflies chasing the sun's rays, 
that he never even noticed that they walked 
on towards the stream , and had not as yet 





— EJj^ 


turned off to the left There was a magic 
in the voice of his companion which made 
him forget everything which, the day before, 
had so occupied him in the society of the 
contrabandists. But when they left the 
ravine and saw an endless, unknown moun- 
tainous tract, with fresh peaks and cliffs lying 
barren and deserted before them, he awoke 
suddenly from his enchanted dreams f stood 
still, and looked at the heavens. He saw 
clearly that she had brought him in an 
utterfy opposite direction, and that he was 
some miles further from his destination than 
w r hen they started. 

u Stop! "said Filippo, "I 
that you are still deceiving 
the way to Fistoja, you 
creature ? w 

u No/' she said fearlessly, but with down- 
cast eyes, 

"Then, by all the infernal powers, the 
fiends might learn deceit from you. A curse 
upon my infatuation ! " 

"One who loves can do all things — love 
is more powerful than devil or angel/' said 
she in deep, mournful tones, 

" No, T! shouted he, in maddened anger, 
u do not triumph yet, you insolent girl, not 
yet I A man's will cannot be broken by 
what a mad wench calls love. Turn back 
with me at once, and show me the shortest 


me. Is this 

paths— or I will strangle you, with these 
very hands — you fool, not to see that I must 
hate you, who would make me seem a 
scoundrel in the eyes of the world.*' 

Digitized by LjC 

6 9 

He went up to her 
with clenched fists, 
beside himself with 

M Strangle me, 
then ! " she said in a 
clear but trembling 
voice; "doit, Filippo. 
But, when the deed 
is done, you will cast 
yourself on my body 
and weep tears of 
blood that you can- 
* not bring me to life 
"""" again. Your place 
will be here beside 
me ; you will fight 
with the vultures 
that will come to eat 
my flesh ; the sun by 
day will burn you ; 
the dew at night will 
drench you ; till you 
fall and die beside me — for you cau never 
more tear yourself away from me + Do you 
think that 'the poor, silly thing, brought up 
in her mountain home, would throw away 
seven years like one day ? I know what they 
have cost me, how dear they were, and that 
I pay an honest price in buying you with 
them. Let you go to meet your death ? It 
would be absurd. Turn from me as you 
will, you will soon feel that I can force you 
back to me for all eternity. For in the 
wine which you drank to-day I mixed a 
love-potion, which no man under the sun 
has been able to withstand ! " 

Most queenly did she look as she 
uttered these words, her arm stretched out 
towards him, as though her hand wielded 
a sceptre over one who had deserted her. 
But he laughed defiantly, and exclaimed, 
" Your love-potion will do you a bad turn, 
for I never hated you more than at this 
moment. But I am a fool to take the 
trouble to hate a fool like you. May you be 
cured of all your folly as of your love 
when you no longer see me near you. I 
do not need you to guide me. On yonder 
slope I see a shepherd's hut, and the flocks 
are near. A fire, too, is burning. They 
will show me the right way up there. 
Farewell, you poor hypocrite ; farewell ! " 
She answered not a word as he left her, 
but sat down quietly in the shadow of a 
rock by the ravine, burying her great eyes 
in the dark green of the fir trees growing 
below by the stream. 


At the Animals' Hospital 


NE hundred years ago ! A 
century since the first two 
stones were joined together 
from which was to spring a 
veritable boon to the sick 
and suffering amongst all sorts 
and conditions of domesticated animals— 
an abiding-place where horse and dog T calf 
and sheep, even down to the maligned and 
sorely-tried drawer of the coster monger's 
cart might receive assistance and advice to 
meet the thousand and one ills to which 
their flesh and bones are heir* The Royal 
Veterinary College is within a month of 
claiming a hundred years' good labour to its 

Hence the reason of our mounting the 
" knife-board " of a yellow-bodied 'bus, 
conspicuously painted " Camden Town,- 1 
with a view of obtaining a preliminary 
interview with the driver regarding the ills 
of most animals in general, and of horse- 
flesh in particular. He knew little, and 
kept that meagre knowledge to himself, 
regarding us with suspicion, probably as a 
spy in the employ of an opposition company, 
and screwed his mouth artfully when a 
question was volleyed, and met it with a 

Digitized by LiQOglC 

knowing crack of the whip in irritating 

u Orf side down, 'Arry. Just show the 
way where the donkeys is doctored, and the 
'osses waccinated. Whoa I Whoa ! 'Er 1 , 
*pon my word, 'Arry, if I didn't forget to 
give Betsy " — a frisky -loo king mare on the 
near side — ''her cough m i x t u re ♦ Wot 
time does the Wet'mary College shut ? " 

The way pointed out by the conductor 
was King-street, at the top of which runs 
Great College-street, where the great gates 
of the Hospital for Animals are facing you. 
Here, congregated together about the en- 
trance, are a dozen or twenty students, the 
majority of them arrayed in garments of a 
decidedly u horsey " cut, their appearance 
suggesting that they are somewhere about 
one remove from the medical student 
proper, though in full possession of all 
their traditional love of fun and irrepressible 
spirits. For a charge of sixty guineas 
these young men may revel in the anatomy 
of a horse for a period of three years, walk 
the straw-carpeted floor of the sick stable, 
pay periodical visits, and learn how to pre- 
sent^ the necessary remedies for the inmates 
of the dogs 1 ward. The secretary , Mr. R. 



A.N, Powys, assures us that three hundred 
students are at present located here, and, 
together with the educational staff, num- 
bering, amongst others, such veterinary 
authorities as 
Professors Axe, 
Penberthy, Mc- 
Queen, Coghill, 
and Edwards, 
they visit the 
beds of some 
fifty horses 

every day, together with those of some ten 
or a dozen dogs, to say nothing of pigs and 
sheep weakly inclined, and cows of nervous 
temperament. During the past twelve 
months 1*174 horses have been examined 
for unsoundness. More than four thousand 
animals were treated either as in-patients or 
out-patients during that period, 

Passing through the gateway, a fine open 
space is immediately in front, with a roadway 
laid down for the purpose of testing the 
soundness of horses. Just at this moment a 
fine prancing steed, a typical shire horse, 
with his coat as brown as a new* chestnut, 
and his limbs and quarters as they should be, 
is led out by a stalwart groom* For all the 
animal's 16J hands, there is a question as 
to his soundness. A professor hurries up, 
followed by a score of students, with note- 
books and pencils ready. The horse is 
trotted round the gravel- path, then gal- 
loped with a rider bare-back, A thought- 
ful consultation follows, and the verdict pro- 
nounced upon its respiratory organs is : 
u As sound as a bell." 

There is an estimable and enterprising 
gentleman touring the London streets who 
is the proprietor of a 
group of animals which 
he facetiously calls 
" The Happy Family." 
These are in the flesh, 
alive and frolicsome ; 
but here in Camden 
Town, where all things 
veterinary are studied, 
is a happy family — in 
the bone. They are 
gathered together in 
unison around the bust 
of the late Professor 
Robertson. The "ship 
of the desert'' has on 
its left an elephant of 
formidable size, near 


in the Edgware-road, A pig is readily 
recognised, and a fine dog seems to be 
looking up to the late Professor as an old 
friend. This interesting collection will 

shortly be added 
to by all that is 
left of the cele- 
brated race- 
horse "Hermit 11 
It is to the 
Museum that 
the students re- 
pair two or three times a week, and gain a 
practical knowledge of the ailments which 
are associated with ani als. 

The glass cases contain horses' mouths, 
showing the various stages of the teeth. 
Innumerable are the bottles holding pre- 
served portions of each and every animaL 
In one of the cases is a very interesting 
specimen of the students' work. It illustrates 
the anatomy of a dog's leg- The bone is 
taken in hand by the student, and by an 
ingenious arrangement of red sealing wax 
the blood-vessels are faithfully and realisti- 
cally introduced. 

Every case contains a curiosity — one is 
full of the feet of horses, and its next -door 
neighbour protects a wonderful array of 
horseshoes. The ideal horse-shoe is one 
which requires no nails. The nearest 
approach to this is a shoe which clamps the 
hoof, k screwed up tightly T and the whole 
thing kept in place by an iron band. The 
great amount of pressure which is required 
to keep the shoe from shifting, and the 
possible injury it may cause the wearer, has 
prevented its universal use. 

Here is an old-fashioned drenching bit — 
the old idea of ad- 
ministering medicine 
to horses. The bit is 
hollow and a funnel is 
attached to it, to be 
inserted in the animal's 
mouth and the mixture 
poured in. To -d ay, 
however, a tin drench* 
ing can of a somewhat 
pyramidical shape is 
simply used. 

At the door one may 
brush against what ap- 
pears to be a mop of 
extra size. It is — to 
use a homely expres- 
which stands an sion — a calfs leg with "a housemaid's 
ostrich. On the camel's right is a cow, knee. 1 ' This curious growth is five feet in 
and a lion, originally part of a menagerie circumference and z foot and a half in 





depth. But perhaps the most remarkable 
•erner is that devoted to the storing of 
massive stones and cement, hardened 
together, which have been taken from the 
bodies of various animals. 

These are of all shapes and sizes. Two 
of them taken from a mare, weigh fifty -four 
pounds, and many of them would turn the 

employed in lameness r as a blister on the 
limb. It is interesting to be told that there 
are a number of horses in the hunting field, 
in the streets, and the park, wearing silver 
tracheotomy tubes, as an assistance to their 
breathing, and T to put it in the words of a 
doctor, " doing well," 

The pharmacy is by no means to be 

scale at thirty- five to forty pounds. The 
formation of such stones is curious. Above 
is a drawing — in miniature — of a huge stone 
formed inside a cow. The cow — by no 
means a careful one — enjoyed the green 
grass of the meadow in blissful ignorance 
that even tin -tacks and nails get lodged on 
the sward occasionally. The cow, in her 
innocence, swallowed the nail— there it is, 
imbedded in the centre, Lime and earth 
deposited and hardened round it, with the 
result that an immense stone was formed of 
nearly forty pounds in weight* 

Next comes the instrument, room. This 
is an apartment not calculated to act as a 
sedative upon the visitor who is forced to 
be a frequent caller on the dentist. The 
forceps for drawing horses* teeth are more 
than a yard long, and it requires a man of 
might and muscle to use them with effect, 
The tracheotomy lubes — inserted when a 
horse has difficulty in breathing— stand out 
brightly from amongst the dull and heavy 
appearance of the firing irons, which are 

hurriedly passed by, It is the chemist's 
shop of the establishment, the place where 
students enter to be initiated into all the 
mysteries of compounding a prescription. 
They may crush the crystals into powder 
in a mortar of diminutive size, or pound them 
in one as big as a copper with a pestle as 
long as a barber's pole. A great slate is 
covered with veterinary hieroglyphics ; the 
shelves are decorated with hundreds of blue 
bottles, the drawers brimming over with 
tiny phials and enormous gallipots, Step 
behind a substantial wooden screen, which 
practically says M Private, " and you have 
the most approved of patterns in the way of 
a chemist's counter* Here is every item, 
down to the little brass scales and weights, 
the corks and sealing wax, the paper and 

From the pharmacy to the Turkish bath 
is but a step. Veterinary authorities have 
arrived at the conclusion that a Turkish 
bath is the finest remedy that can be found 

for skin disease in 

hi % Ln_M 

TfotalG?ft U 

takes the 



form of a square stable, heated by a furnace 
at the back. Not an outlet is permitted 
for the escape of the hot air> and it can be 
heated to any temperature required, The 
horse, too, can enjoy all the luxuriousness 
of a shower bath, and if necessary can dabble 
his four feet in a foot-bath handy. Indeed, 
everything goes to prove the whole system 
of treating sick animals is founded on the 
same principle as that meted out to human 

One must needs look in at the open door 
of the shoeing-forge, The clang of the 
blacksmith's hammer makes a merry accom- 
paniment to the prancing of a dozen fine 
creatures just entering to be shod. The 
whistling of the bellows, and the hissing of 
the roused- up flames vie with the snorting 
of a grand bay mare who cannot be num- 
bered amongst the most patient of her sex. 

H Stand over, miss — stand over, 1 " cries a 
strapping, brawny lad. " She'U take a 
number five ; " and from a stock of three 
hundred and fifty dozen new shoes which 
adorn the walls — and, if numbers count for 
anything, good luck should pervade every 
nook and corner of the forge — a five -inch 
shoe is quickly adjusted, and the bay, not 
yet realising the new footing upon which 
she stands, enlists the services of a pair of 
men to hold her in. 

The paddock in the immediate neighbour- 
hood of the forge is the sick-ward of the 
hospital for horses. Every horse has its 
own apartment — a loose box, the door of 
which is fitted with iron bars 
through which the doctor can 
inspect his patient. The inmate's 
card, which tells its sex and 
colour, date of entrance, number, 
disease, and treatment prescribed, 
is affixed to the door, and every 
day a professor goes his rounds* 
The hospital surgeon also pays 
continual visits, and medicine is 
administered at intervals varying 
from two or three hours to three 
or four days. 

Here is one of the most patient 
of the inmates, " Polly/' a pretty 
creature who would add to the pic- 
turesqueness of any hunting- field 
in the country, and who has dis- 
located her shoulder* Polly might 
be held up as a credit to any 
hospital. She bore her bandag- 
ing — not always a painless operation, for 
the linen must needs be fastened firmly 
—without moving a muscle, only heaving 

a sigh of relief as soon as the tying-up was 

A slip of linen or calico is carefully cut 
to size and strapped on with strong tapes. 
It is likewise considered beneficial that the 
patient should be kept in ignorance as to 
its whereabouts r for the horror of u hos- 
pital " which pervades most people's minds 
exists in the imaginations of animals as well- 
Therefore the sick Polly must needs sub- 
mit to having her eyes bandaged that she 
may realise the position of being in the 
dark as to her lodging for a week or two. 
A strip of the same material from which 
the shoulder-strap was cut is tied on to the 

" Polly's " next-door neighbour, however, 
presents a much more serious case. 

H Joe iJ has recently been gaining experi- 
ence in the fact that life is but a chapter of 
accidents, Joe could not be characterised 
as a careless creature ; indeed, it is chroni- 
cled of him that he would positively feel 
for every step he took, and pick out the 
safest spots in the line of route, Poor Joe ! 
His careful line of action and method of 
travelling did not meet with that reward to 
which it was entitled, Alas I he now rests 
here as a warning to his fellow-horses not 
to put trust in the treacherous smoothness 
of the agreeable asphalt, or too much faitli 
in the comfort afforded by the pleasures of 
travelling on a newly- 
repaired road, 
laid up with 

He is 
an in- 

jured thigh, and a severe fracture has 
befallen one half of what he depended 
upon to carry him through life, 





"Rest, complete rest, is what he needs/ 1 
remarks a passing doctor. And a very in- 
genious arrangement is provided in order 
to attain the desired end. 

This consists, of a big canvas sling, held 
up by half a dozen pulleys* On this the 
whole weight of the body 
is supported, and the 
comfort afforded is equiva- 
lent to that provided by 
a good bed to a weary 
man. The animal is so 
weak that, if he tumbled 
down, it is doubtful 
whether he would get up 
again. Here he will re- 
main until completely 
recovered, which means 
enjoying the repose 
afforded by this horsey 
hammock for a period 
between six weeks and 
six months. 

The two fractured limbs 
are T for the time being, 
imbedded in iron splints 
with leather bands, and 
fitted with little pads in 
front in order not to cut 
the leg- All these sur- 
gical appliances are in every way as perfect 
as if they were intended for the human 
frame, instead of for a horse's. 

Sickness does not seem to diminish the 
appetites of the inmates, and doses of iron 
and quinine are not of frequent occurrence. 
It may take three or four months to cure a 
case of lameness, and long terms of confine- 
ment may possibly be needed for diseases of 
the respiratory or digestive organs, or of 
the skin. But the bill for food, hay and 
straw, amounted to the comfortable sum of 
^1,510 os. 8d, last year, against the modest 
outlay of £ibb 1 is. 5d. which was spent in 
drugs. The number of horse-patients con- 
fined to well-kept beds of straw and healthy 
peat-moss, in admirably ventilated apart- 
ments, averages fifty at one time. Their 
paddock — or sick- ward — is a pattern of clean- 
liness, neatness, and good order. 

There is only a moment to spend in the 
operating theatre, acknowledged to be the 
finest in Europe. It is a huge space covered 
with a glass canopy, where four or five 
horses can be operated on at once. There 
is ample accommodation for every student 
in the hospital to obtain a good view of 
the proceedings* Only a moment also to 
peep in at a little apartment in the far 

corner — a small operating room fitted up 
with a trevis, a wooden structure where the 
animal to be operated upon is placed, and 
strapped in with ropes, so that movement 



is impossible ; only a moment, such a bark- 
ing and a whining breaks upon the peaceful 
air — troublous cries that find an outlet 
from the open door of an upper room, to 
which ascends a stable staircase* It is the 
dogs 1 ward ! 

The barking of the inmates is to be inter- 
preted into an unmistakable welcome. Here, 
in corners of the cosiest, and beds of the 
whitest wood-fibre, reclines many a magnifi- 
cent specimen* These fine St. Bernard pups 
are worth ^250 a piece, and only a week or 
two ago a patient was discharged as con- 
valescent, upon whose head rested the figure 
of £1,200. Most of them are suffering from 
skin disease ; but here is a pup, with a coat 
of impenetrable blackness, afflicted with 
St, Vitus's dance. He wears a pitiful ex- 
pression ; but, save for an occasional twitter 
of a muscle, rests very quietly. Every cage 
is occupied, save one, and that is an apart- 
ment with double iron gates* It is set 
apart for mad dogs. Every creature bears 
its affliction with remarkable resignation, 
and, as one passes from bed to bed, runs out 
to the length of its chain and stands looking 
up the sawdust- strewn floor which leads to 
" the nursery," 

One fine follow,, however, rests in a 




corner, near the bath, the very personifica- 
tion of all that is dignified, 

" David " is a grand St. Bernard, upon 
whom a coat of shaggy beauty has been 

the iron bars, and his leg was broken. The 
child was quite safe ; she was only gathering 
11 The Nursery w is a room set apart at 


bestowed and the blessing of a majestic pre- 
sence. He sits there with his front paw 
dangling over the bed-side ; helpless, but not 
uncared for. His leg is broken, and he holds 
it out, tightly tied up and bandaged, as 
token thereof. Cheer up p David, old boy — 
look a bit pleasant > David, my brave fellow, 
But David only shakes his head in grateful 
thanks for a word of sympathy. He is a 
credit to his breed, and his noble disposition 
would lead him to forget what brought him 
there. It is a touching story* His owner's 
little daughter was his mistress ; David 
followed her wherever she went, and — save 
at night time — never allowed her out of 
his sight, and even then he would nestle 
outside her door on the mat, until the 
child woke in the morning. Just a week 
ago the little girl had wandered down 
the river bank, climbing over the iron 
railings separating the pathway from the 
tiny valley which led down to the water. 
David did not notice this action, and when he 
turned his head saw that his mistress had 
disappeared. With his mind bent on the 
water, he took a leap, intending to spring 
over the rails ; but his front paw caught 


the far end for the reception of the smaller 
species of the canine tribe* 

The two little Skye terriers fondling 
one another are suffering from ingrown toe- 
nails and must needs have them cut. The 
cot next to them is empty ; but a " King 
Charles " will convert the apartment into 
a royal one on the morrow. His Majesty, 
too, requires the application of the scissors 
to his royal toes. Above is a terrier — 
beautifully niarked — but, withal, wearing 
a remarkably long expression of coun- 
tenance. Something is wrong with one of 
his ears, and his face is tied up like that of 
an individual writhing beneath the tortures 
of toothache. u Dot envies his brother 
terrier next door. There is nothing wrong 
with him ; he is not an inmate, but a 
boarder, and the property of one of the 
officials. A pretty little couple of colleys 
are sympathising with each other in their 
affliction as they lie cuddled up in the corner. 
They are both queer— something wrong 
with their lungs. 

Out in the open again, we look in upon 
a fine bullock with a very ugly swollen 
face* But hero, in *l corner all to itself, we 




meet with a veritable curiosity — a cow with 
a wooden leg ! 

This is a strapping young Alderney, 
of such value that it was deemed advisable 

to provide her with 

instead of killing her at once. 

wooden support 
" Susan " 
was a pet, and had 
her own way in most 
things . P robabl v 
this aroused the 

green-eyed monster within the breast of a 
mare who sometimes shared her meadow. 
Whether the cause was jealousy or not, one 
thing is certain — after a particularly hearty 
meal, which seems to have endowed the marc 
with exceptional strength and vigour, to 
say nothing of a wicked and revengeful 
mind, she deliberately, and without warning, 
kicked the fair Susan* Susan had to lie 
up for three or four months, and now a 
wooden leg supports her injured frame. 

A strap is fastened roun^ the body of the 
cow ; then a wooden support is placed 
near the neck and attached to the main 
strap with leather bands. Finally, the iron- 
bound timber leg is set in place"; and it is 
said that the animal sustains but little 

Following a number of students, we are 
soon within the precincts of the dissecting 
room. This is a square room containing a 
dozen or twenty dead donkeys, each laid out 
on a table for dissection- The enterprising 
students repair to Islington Cattle Market, 
and for a pound or thirty shillings purchase 
a likely subject from an obliging coster- 
monger- Half a dozen of them will each 
take a share in the expense incurred, and 
work together at a table, passing from head 
to tail until a complete examination has 
been made. 

But what most interests the casual 
visitor is " The Poor Man's Corner >" a 

portion of the yard set apart for out-patient^ 
and termed by the hospital authorities their 
44 cheap practice," 

Every day — excepting Sundays — between 
the hours of two and four, a motley crowd 
assembles here, bringing with them an 
animal which has betrayed signs to its 
owner that it is not altogether u fit." The 
cabby w r ho is the proud possessor of a four- 
wheeler and an ancient-looking steed comes 

with a face which 
tells another tale 
than that which be- 
tokens a small fare. 
The coster thrusts 
his hands deep into 
his trousers pockets 
and waits in gloomy 
meditation. Visions 
of his donkey being 
condemned to death 
on the spot flash 
through his mind t 
and he almost re- 
grets he came. 
14 Guvnor — I say, 
guvnor, it ain't a 'opeless case, is it ? Don't 
say it's all up wi 1 it. Yer see, guvnor, I 
couldn't help but bring it along. I'm a 
rough T un, but IVe got a 'art, and, there, I 
couldn't stand it no longer, seein* the poor 
creeter a limpin* along like that. On*y say 
it ain't a ^opeless case/' 

He will soon be out of his suspense, for 
his donkey will be examined in its turn. 

Not only is advice given gratis and the 
animal thoroughly examined, but, should 
it need medicine, or call for an operation, 
this is readily done, the students generally 
performing it under the superintendence of 
one of the professors. 

The u poor man's ,T gate has just been 
opened, and Mr. E. R. Edwards, the hospital 
surgeon, holds the bridle of the first horse for 
examination as the students gather round. 
One of the professors appears upon the 
scene, and asks the owner what is the 
matter with his horse, 
(( He can -ardly walk, sir/ 1 
"Lame, eh?' r 
M I expec's so, sir." 
" What are you ? " 
"Hawks wegetables about, sir.'' 
The horse is trotted up the yard and back 
again. Then the professor turns to a 
student and asks what he considers is wrong 
with the animal. 

' l Lame in both hind legs ; " — and, the 
student having diagnosed the case correctly, 




*the animal is walked off to be further 
treated and prescribed for. 

Case after case is taken. One horse that 
draws firewood from seven in the morning 
until ten or eleven at night, cannot eat. 
Away it goes for examination, and the tem- 
perature of its pulse is taken, A lad, 
evidently not used to the stubborn disposi- 
tion and immovable spirit of donkeys in 
genera!, has brought his own, which ho 
informs the professor he only purchased 
"the week afore last," Now, nothing 
under the sun in the shape of argument 
with whip or words will make it go at any- 
thing like the pace which the man from 
whom he bought it guaranteed, 

" Why, sir, I had to drag it here, 'Pon 
my word, I believe as 'ow he knew where I 
was a takin T 'im, for he crawled rnore*n ever. 
I thought as 'ow there might be something 
wrong wi T his wind." 

"Trot him along/' said the professor ; but 
the donkey turned a deaf ear to the inviting 
cries of forty or fifty students to "go on/' 
and bravely stood his ground. The victor 
w^ placed on one side to be dealt with 
later on. 

The next case was one connected with a 
pathetic story. The horse— a poor creature 
which had evidently seen better days— was 

owned by a laundryman, a widower, who 
had eleven children to support, the oldest 
of whom was only fifteen years of age, and 
the youngest six months. He depended 
entirely on his horse to carry the laundry 
round from house to house. 

The poor fellow stood quietly by and 
seemed to read in the professor's face and 
gather from his hurried consultation with a 
brother "vet." that something out of the 
common was the matter with his horse. 
In response to the doctor's beckoning, he 
approached the spot where the animal stood, 
and, with tears in his eyes, asked in a chok- 
ing voice, " Not an operation, I hope, sir? " 

The professor shook his head. 

Then the truth flashed upon the laundry- 
man's mind. He stood dumbfounded for a 
moment. The students ceased their chatter, 
and, save for the movement of a horse's 
foot upon the uneven stones, the yard ftas 
as still as the ward of a hospital where 
human beings lie. The horse was c<fri- 
demned to death ! 

The poor fellow threw his arms about the 
animal's neck, and the horse turned its. 
head in response to his master's caresses, 
and the cry which came from the man T s heart 
could not have been more pitiful had he 
been parting from his only friend, 


by Google 

Original from 

The Mirror. 

From the French of Lio Lnspis- 

[Lio LESPfeS was bom *t Bonchain, June the rSth, Tgrj— the day of Waterloo. At seventeen he was 
compelled to take up arms as a conscript of Fusiliers, and for eight years passed his life amidst the scenes of 
camps and guard -rooms, But Lespes was not born to be a soldier ; nature had meant him for a man of letters. 
As soon as he obtained his liberty, he began to write for newspapers and magazines ; and from that time until 
his death in 1875 he lived a busy but uneventful life, as one of the most popular of authors. He was one of 
the chief founders of the Pttii Jmrnal, which, owing largely to the tales and articles which he wrote under the 
signature of Lb Timothy Trimm," attained at once to a gigantic circulation. During his lifetime, his brilliant 
little stories were the delight of thousands ; but beyond the limits of his native country his fame has never 
been so great as it deserves.] 


OU wish me to write to you, 
my dear Anais— me, a poor 
blind creature whose hand 
moves faltering in the darkness ? Are you 
not afraid of the sadness of my letters, 
written as they are in gloom? Have you 
no fear of the sombre thoughts which must 
beset the blind? 

Dear Anais, you are happy ; you can see. 
To see ! Oh, to see ! to be able to distin- 
guish the blue sky, the sun, and all the 
different colours — what a joy 1 True, I 
once enjoyed this privilege, but when I 
was struck with blindness, I was scarcely 
ten years old. Now I am twenty -five, It 
is fifteen long years since everything around 
me became as black as night ! In vain, 
dear friend, do I endeavour to recall the 
wonders of nature. I have forgotten all 
her hues, I smell the scent of the rose T 
T guess its shape by the touch ; but its 

boasted colour, to which all beautiful 
women are compared, I have forgotten— or, 
rather, I cannot describe. Sometimes under 
this thick veil of darkness strange gleams 
flit* The doctors say that this is the 
movement of the blood, and that this may 
give some promise of a cure. Vain delusion ! 
When one has lost for fifteen years the 
lights which beautify the earth, they are 
never to be found again except in heaven. 

The other day I had a rare sensation. In 
groping in my room I put my hand upon — 
oh ! you would never guess — upon a 
mirror I I sat down in front of it, and 
arranged my hair like a coquette. Oh ! what 
would I have given to be able to regard 
myself! — to know if I was nice! — if my 
skin is as white as it is soft, and if I have 
pretty eyes under my long lashes I — 
Ah ! they often told us at school that the 
devil comes in the glasses of little girls who 

by Google 




look at themselves too long ! All I can 
say is, if he came in mine he must have 
been nicely caught — my lord Satan. I 
couldn't have seen him ! 

You ask me in your kind letter, which 
they have just read to me, whether it is true 
that the failure of a banker has ruined my 
parents. I have heard nothing about it. 
No, they are rich. I am supplied with every 
luxury. Everywhere that my hand rests 
it touches silk and velvet, flowers and pre- 
cious stuffs. Our table is abundant, and 
every day my taste is coaxed with dainties. 
Therefore, you see, Anais, that my beloved 
folks are happily well off. 

Write to me, my darling, since you are 
now back from that aristocratic England, 
and you have some pity for the poor blind 


You have no idea, Anais, what I am going 
to tell you ! Oh ! you will laugh as if you 
had gone crazy. You will believe that with 
my sight I must have lost my reason. I 
have a lover ! 

Yes, dear ; I, the girl without eyes, have 
a wooer as melting and as importunate as 
the lover of a duchess. After this, what is 
to be said ? Love, who is as blind as blind 
can be, undoubtedly owed me this as one of 
his own kind. 

How he got in amongst us I don't 
know ; still less, what he is going to do 
here. All I can tell you is that he sat on 
my left at dinner the other day, and that 
he looked after me with extreme care and 

u This is the first time," I said, "that I 
have had the honour of meeting you." 

"True," he answered, " but I know your 

u You are welcome," I replied, " since you 
know how to esteem them — my good 
angels ! " 

"They are not the only people," he con- 
tinued, softly, "for whom I feel affection." 

" Oh," I answered, thoughtlessly, "then 
whom else here do you like ? " 

" You," said he. 

14 Me ? What do you mean ? " 

" That I love you." 

"Me? You love met" 

"Truly! Madly!" 

At these words I blushed, and pulled 
my scarf over my shoulders. He sat quite 

44 You are certainly abrupt in your an- 

by L^OOgle 

" Oh ! it might be seen in my regards, 
my gestures, all my actions." 

" That may be, but I am blind. A blind 
girl is not wooed as others are." 

" What do I care about the want of 
sight ? " said he, with a delightful accent of 
sincerity ; " what matters it to me if your 
eyes are closed to the light ? Is not your 
figure charming, your foot as tiny as a 
fairy's, your step superb, your tresses long 
and silky, your skin of alabaster, your 
complexion carmine, and your hand the 
colour of the lily ? " 

He had finished his description before his 
words ceased sounding in my ears. So then, 
I had, according to him, a beautiful figure, 
a fairy foot, a snowy skin, a complexion like 
a rose, and fair and silky hair. Oh, Anais, 
dear Anais, to other girls such a lover, who 
describes all your perfections, is nothing but 
a suitor ; but to a blind girl he is more than 
a lover, he is a mirror. 

I began again : " Am I really as pretty as 
all that ? " 

" I am still far from the reality." 

" And what would you have me. do ? " 

" I want you to be my wife." 

I laughed aloud at this idea. 

" Do you mean it ? " I cried. " A mar- 
riage between the blind and the seeing, 
between the day and the night ? Why, I 
should have to put my orange blossoms on 
by groping ! No ! no ! my parents are rich : 
a single life has no terrors for me ; single I 
will remain, and take the service of Diana, 
as they say — and so much the worse for her 
if she is waited on amiss ! " 

He went away without saying a word 
more. It is all the same : he has taught 
me that I am nice ! I don't know how it 
is that I catch myself loving him a little, 
Mr. Mirror mine ! 


Oh, dear Anais, what news I have to tell 
you ! What sad and unexpected things 
befall us in this life ! As I tell you what 
has happened to me, the tears are falling 
from my darkened eyes. 

Several days after my conversation with 
the stranger whom I call my mirror, I was 
walking in the garden, leaning on my 
mother's arm, when she was suddenly and 
loudly called for. It seemed to me that the 
maid, in haste to find my mother, betrayed 
some agitation in her voice. 

"What is the matter, mother ? " I *ske<J 
her, troubled without knowing why% . 
\j\ i q i n d i Trorn 




"Nothingi love ; some visitor, no doubt 
In our position we owe something to 

" In that case," I said, embracing her, " I 
will not keep you any longer. Go and do 
the honours of the drawing-room." 

She pressed two icy lips upon my fore- 
head. Then I heard her footsteps on the 
gravel path receding in the distance. 

She had hardly left me when I thought 
I heard the voices of two neighbours — two 
workmen— who were chatting together, 
thinking they 

were alone. You m 

know, Anals, 
when God de- 
prives us of one 
of our faculties, 
he seems, in 
order to console 
us, to make the 
others keener : 
the blind man 
has his hearing 
sharper than his 
whose gaze can 
traverse space. I 
did not lose a 
word of their re- 
marks, although 
they spoke in a 
low tone. And 
this is what they 
said : 

" Poor things ! 
how sad ! The 
brokers in 
again ! t? 

"And the girl 
has not the least 
suspicion, She 
never guesses that 
they take advan- 
tage of her loss 
of sight to nuke 
her happy." 

" What do you mean ? " 

" There isn't any doubt about it, AH 
that her hand touches is of mahogany or 
velvet ; only the velvet has grown shabby 
and the mahogany has lost its lustre. At 
table she enjoys the most delicious dishes 
without dreaming, in her innocence, that 
the domestic misery is kept concealed from 
her, and that alongside of that very table 
her father and mother seldom have any* 
thing except dry bread,- 1 

Oh, Anais, you can understand my 
agony I They have practise*} on me for 

Digitized by GoOgle 

my happiness ; they have made me live in 
luxury amidst my darkness, — and me alone. 
Oh ! marvellous devotion. All the wealth 
which a most grateful heart can offer can- 
not pay this everlasting debt. 


I have not told anyone that I have 
guessed this sad yet charming secret. My 
mother would be overwhelmed to learn that 
all her trouble to conceal her poverty from 

me has been use- 
less, I still affect 
a firm belief in 
the flourishing 
condition of our 
house. But I 
am determined 
to save it. 

M- de Sauves, 
as my lover is 
called, came to 
see me — and may 
Heaven forgive 
me I — I set my- 
self to play the 
coquette with 

So I said : 
" Have you still 
the same esteem 
for me ? n 

" Yes," said he. 
beautiful with the 
noblest beauty, 
which is pure and 

"And my 
figure ? » 

" As exquisite 
and graceful as a 

u I love you 
cause you 



li Ah ! and my forehead ? " 

41 Large, and smooth as the ivory which 
it outshines, 1 * 

" Really ? " And I began to laugh. 

" What makes you so merry ? " 

" An idea — that you are my mirror, I see 
myself reflected in your words." 

11 Dearest, i would that it might be so 
always.' * 

4i Would you agree, then — — ? " 

lt To be your faithful mirror, to reflect 
your qualities, your virtues. Consent to 
be my wife, I have some fortune ; 
you shall want for nothing, and I will 

Original fro-rn 




strive with all my power to make you 

At these words I thought of my poor 
parents, whom my marriage would relieve 
of an enormous burden. 

44 If I consent to marry you/' I answered, 
" your self-love, as a man, would suffer. I 
could not see you." 

"Alas ! " he cried, 4i I owe you a confession." 

44 Go on," I said. 

" I am a graceless child of nature. I have 
neither charm of countenance, nor dignity 
of carriage. To crown my misfortune, a 
scourge, nowadays made powerless by the 
art of vaccination, has mercilessly scarred 
my features. In. marrying a blind girl, 
therefore, I show that I amselfish and with- 
out humility." 

I held out my hand to him. 

44 1 don't know whether you are too hard 
on yourself, but I believe you to be good 
and true. Take me, then, such as I am. 
Nothing, at any rate, will turn my thoughts 
from yours. Your love will be an oasis in 
the desert of my night." 

Am I doing right, or wrong ? I know 
not, dear Anais, but I am going to my 
parents' rescue. Perhaps, in my groping, I 
have found the right way. 


I thank you for your kind friendliness, 
for the compliments and congratulations 
with which your letter is filled. 

Yes, I have been married for two months, 
and I am the happiest of women. I have 
nothing to desire ; idolised by my husband, 
and adored by my parents, who have not 
left me, I do not regret my infirmity, since 
Edmond sees for both of us. 

The day I was married, my mirror — as I 
call him — reflected complacently my bridal 
pomp. Thanks to it, I knew that my veil 
was nicely made, and that my wreath of 
orange-blossoms was not all on one side. 
What could a Venetian mirror have done 
more ? " 

In the evening we walk out together in 
the gardens, and he makes me admire the 
flowers by their perfume, the birds by their 
song, the fruit by its taste and its soft 
touch. Sometimes we go to the theatrg, 
and there, too, he reproduces, by his wit, all 
that my closed eyes cannot see. Oh ! what 
does his ugliness matter to me ? I no 
longer know what is beautiful, or what is 
ugly, but I do know what is kind and loving. 

Farewell, then, dear Anais, rejoice in my 

by L^OOgle 


I am a mother, Anais, the mother of a 
little girl, and I can't see her ! They say 
she looks sweet enough to eat. They make 
out that she is a living miniature of me, 
and I can't admire her ! Oh, how mighty 
is a mother's love ! I have borne without 
a murmur not to look upon the blue of 
heaven, the glamour of the flowers, the 
features of my husband, of my parents, of 
those who love me ; but it seems that I can- 
not bear with resignation not to see my 
child ! Oh, if the black band which covers 
my sight would fall for a minute, a second 
only ; if I could look at her as one looks 
at the vanishing lightning, I should be 
happy — I should be proud for the remainder 
of my life ! 

Edmond this time cannot be my mirror. 
It is in vain that he tells me that my cherub 
has fair curly hair, great wayward eyes, and 
a vermilion smile. What good is that to me ? 
I cannot see my little darling when she 
stretches out her arms to me ! 


My husband is an angel. Do you know 
what he is doing ? He has had me cared 
for during the past year without my know- 
ing it. He wishes to restore the light to 
me, and the doctor is — himself ! — he who for 
my sake has adopted a profession from 
which his sensibility recoils. 

44 Angel of my life/' he said to me yester- 
day, 44 do you know what I hope ? " 

44 Is it possible ? " 

" Yes ; those lotions which I made you 
use under the pretext that they would 
beautify the skin, were really preparations 
for an operation of a very different import- 

44 What operation ? " 

44 For the cure of cataract." 

44 Will not your hand tremble ? " 

44 No ; my hand will be sure, for my 
heart will be devoted." 

44 Oh ! " said I, embracing him, 44 you are 
not a man, you are a ministering angel." 

44 Ah ! " he said, u kiss me once more, 
dearest. Let me enjoy these last few 
moments of illusion." 

44 What do you mean, dear ? " 

44 That soon, with the help of God, you 
will regain your sight." 

44 And then ? " 

44 Then you will see me as I am -small, 
insignificant, and ugly/' 

At these *Y°V4^ it seemed to me as if a 



flash shot through my darkness : it was my 
imagination which was kindling like a 

* 4 Edmondj dearest,*' I said rising, " if you 
do not trust my love, if you think that, 
whatever your face may be T I am not your 
willing slave, leave me in my nothingness, 
in my eternal night;" 

He answered nothing, but pressed my 

The operation, my mother told me, might 
be attempted in a month, 

I called to mind the details which I had 
asked about my husband. Mamma had 
told me that he was marked by small-pox; 
papa main tains that his hair is very thin : 
Nicette, our servant, will have it that he k 

To be marked by the small-pox is 
to be the victim of an accident. To be 
bald is a sign of intellectual power : 
so said Lavater. But to be old — that is 
a pity. And then, if, unfortunately, in 
the course -of nature, he were to die be- 
fore me, I should have less time to love 

In fact, Anal*, if you remember the 
stories in the fairy book which we read 
together, you with eyes and voice, I in 
heart and spirit, you will admit that I 
am rather in the interesting situation of 
"The Beauty and the Beast, 1 ' without 
having the resource of the transformation 
miracle. Meanwhile, pray for me ; for, 
with God's help, who knows whether I 
shall not soon be able to read your precious 
letters ! 




Oh, my friend, don't look s.t the end of 
this letter before you have read the begin* 
ning. Take your share of my griefs, my 
vicissitudes, and my joys, by following their 
natural course. 

The operation took place a fortnight 
ago. A trembling hand was placed 
upon my eyes. I uttered two piercing 
cries ; then I seemed to see day, light, 
colour, sun. Then instantaneously a 
bandage was replaced upon my burning 
forehead. I was cured ! only a little 
patience and a little courage were required. 
Edmond had restored me to the sweetness 
of life. 

But, must I confess it ? I did a foolish 
thing. I disobeyed my doctor— he will not 
know it : besides, there is no danger in my 
rashness now. They had brought me my 
little one to kiss. Nicette was holding her 
in her lap. The child said in her soft voice. 
u Mamma ! " I could resist no longer, I 
tore off the bandage. 

" My child ! oh, how lovely she k I " I 
cried out. " I see her ! oh, I see her ! ? ' 

Nicette quickly put the bandage on 
again. But I was no longer lonely in the 
darkness, This cherub face, restored by 
memory, from that moment lighted up my 

Yesterday my mother came to dress me. 
We were long over my toilette. I had on 
a beautiful silk dress, a lace collar, my hair 
dressed rf la Marie Stuart. When my 
arrangements were complete, my mother 
said to me : — 

11 Take off the band- 

I obeyed, and though 
only a twilight prevailed 
in the room, I thought 
that I had never seen 
anything so beautiful. I 
pressed to my heart my 
mother, my father, and 
mv child. v 

II You have seci T n said 
my father, ** everybody 
but yourself." 

"And mv husband," I 
cried out, tl where is my 
husband ? " 

"He is hiding," said 
Lf my mother. 

Then I remembered his 
ugliness, his attire, his thin 

rigin^froffl d his scarred ^ cc ' 



" Poor dear Edmond/* I said, u let him 
come to me. He is more beautiful than 

"While we are waiting for your lord 
and master," mamma answered, 1( admire 
yourself ; look in the glass. You may 
admire yourself for a long time without 
blame, if you are to make up for lost 

I obeyed ; a little from vanity, a little 
from curiosity, What if I was ugly ? What 
if my plainness j like my poverty, had been 
concealed from me ? They led me to my 
pier glass. I uttered a cry of joy* 
With my slender figure, my com- 
plexion like a rose, my < ; \ little 
dazed, and like two shimmering 
sapphire^ I was charming Never- 
theiesS} I could not look at myself 
quite at my ease, for 
the glass was trembling 
without cessation, and 
my image reflected on 
its brilliant surface 
seemed as if it danced 
for joy. 

I looked behind the 
glass to see what made 
it tremble, 

A young man came 
out — a fine young man , 
with largo black eyes 
and striking figure r 
whose coat was adorned 
by the rosette of the 
Legion of Honour. I 
blushed to think that 
I had been so foolish in 
in the presence of a 

"Just look/ 1 said my mother to me, 
without taking any notice of him, "how 
fair you arc ; like a white rose." 

^ Mamma ! " I cried. 

" Only look at these white arms/ 1 and 
she pulled my sleeves above the elbow 
without the smallest scruple. 

II But, mamma/ 1 I said, " what are you 
thinking of, before a stranger ! M 

u A stranger ? it is a mirror, 1 ' 

"I don't mean the gla^s but this young 

gentleman who was behind it, like a lover 
in a comedy/' 

u Eh 1 goose/' cried my father, " you 
need not be so bashful. It is your husband." 

n Edmond ! " I cried out, and made a step 
forward to embrace him. 

Then I fell back. He was so beautiful ! 
1 was so happy ! Blind, I had loved in con- 
fidence. What made my heart beat now 
was a new love> swollen by the generosity 
of this truly noble man, who had ordered 
everyone to .say that he was ugly, in order 
to console me for my blindness 


Edmond fell at my knees. Mamma put 
me in his arms, as she wiped away her tears, 

11 How lovely you are/' said my husband 
to me, in an ecstasy. 

bt Flatterer ! tT I answered, looking down 
at him. 

11 No, when I alone was your mirror I 
always told you so — and see ! my colleague, 
here, whom you have just consulted, is of 
the same opinion, and declares that I am 
right ! " 

by Google 

Original from 

Facsimile of the Notes of a Sermon by Cardinal Manning. 

By the kindness of Cardinal Manning, we are able to present our readers with a fac-simile of the 
Cardinal's synopsis of a sermon on Charity, preached on the 9th of July, 1890, in the chapel of the Sisters 
of Charity, Carlisle Place, Westminster. The fac-simile shows the Cardinal's handwriting at the age of 83, 
and also his peculiar method of jotting down his notes on long, narrow slips, two of which are here given to 
a page. These notes are for a sermon of an hour's duration. 



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Original from 

The Queen of Spades. 


[ALEXANDER Sekc-eivitcii Pushkin, the first of the great Russian writers, was born at Moscow 
on Ascension Day, 1799- His father was a Russian nobleman, an officer, a counier, and a wit, but so 
fiery- tempered thai he threw up his commission in a rage at being reprimanded on parade for having used his 
cane to poke the fire. Pushkin's mother was the granddaughter of a negro slave named Abraham Hannibal, 
whom Peter the Great had made a favourite and at last had raised to be an admiral — a piece of history stranger 
than romance. Pushkin's African descent was visible in his appearance — in his crisp black hair f his irregular 
though mobile features, and his swarthy skin. At school he hated work— his sums always made him cry — 
and he was the ringleader in every prank. When scarcely yet of age he wrote an w Ode to Liberty/' for 
which he was condemned to exile in Bessarabia, There for some years he continued lo pour forth the lofty, 
fiery, and romantic poems which have caused him to be termed the Byron of the North. Besides his poems 
Pushkin also wrote a striking volume of prose stories, from which "The Queen of Spades" is taken. When 
Nicholas was crowned he was recalled to Court, and in 1831 he married. For five years he lived in hapniness ; 
but the husband of his wife's sister, who was named George Danthes, preferred the wife of Pushkin to his own. 
Pushkin, who was as jealous as Oihello, challenged Danthes to a duel. On the 29th of January, 1^37, the 
brothers-in-law met w r iih pistols at six paces, and Pushkin was shot through ihe tody. Two days afterwards 
he breathed his last, Me was buried, at his own desire, at a monastery near his early home, where his grave 
is still denoted by a cross of marble, bearing simply the initials A* S, P.] 


/ V 

9$ ■ b^T- .,- -- "' 

HERE was a 
card party at 
the rooms of 
Naroumoff, a 
lieutenant in the 
Horse Guards. A 
long winter night 
had passed un- 
noticed, and it 
was fi v r c o'clock in the morning when 
supper was served. The winners sat down 
to table with an excellent appetite ; the 
losers let their plates remain empty be- 
fore them. Little by little, however, with 

The Queen of Spades denotes iIMocfc 

Complete Foktune-Teller, 

l he assistance of the champagne, the con- 
versation became animated, and was shared 
by all. 

"How did you get on this ' evening, 
Sunn ? n said the hast to one of his friends, 

l * Oh, I lost, as usual. I really have no 
luck. I play mtrandole. You know thatl 
keep cord. Nothing move* me ; I never 
change my play, and yet I always lose.' 1 

" Do you mean to say that all the evening 
you did not once back the red ? Your 
firmness of character surprises me, 11 

" What do you think of Hermann ? " said 
one of the party, pointing to a young 




Engineer officer. u That fellow never made 
a bet or touched a card in his life, and yet 
he watches us playing until five in the 

u It interests me/' said Hermann ; " but 
I am not disposed to risk the necessary in 
view of the superfluous.' f 

41 Hermann is a German, and economical ; 
ijiat is the whole of the secret," cried 
Tomski. " But what is really astonishing 
is the Countess Anna Fedotovna ! u 

H How so ? ,? asked several voices. 

"Have you not remarked," saidTomski, 
" that she never plays ? IT 


a Yes, T ' said NaroiunofT, u a woman of 

eighty, who never touches a card ; that is 

indeed something extraordinary ! " 

" You do not know why ? " 

" No ; is there a reason for it ? ,N 

"Just listen. My grandmother, you 

know, some sixty years ago f went to Paris, 

and became the rage there. People ran 

after her in the streets, and called her the 

'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu made love 

to her, and my grandmother make- nut 

that, by her rigorous demeanour, she 

almost drove him to suicide. In those 

days wometi used to play at faro. One 

evening at the Court she lost, on parok r to 

Digitized by GoOglC 

the Duke of Orleans, a very considerable 
sum. When she got home, my grand- 
mother removed her beauty-spots, took off 
her hoops, and in this tragic costume went 
to my grandfather, told him of her mis- 
fortune, and asked him for the money she 
had to pay. My grandfather, now no more, 
was, so to say, his wife** steward, He 
feared her like fire ; but the sum she named 
made him leap into the air. He flew into a 
rage, made a brief calculation, and proved 
to my grandmother that in six months she 
had got through half a million roubles. He 
told her plainly that he had no villages to 
sell in Paris, his domains being situated in 
the neigh bourhood of Moscow and of Sara- 
tofF ; and finally refused point blank. You 
may imagine the fury of mv grandmother. 
She boxed his ears, and passed the night in 
another room. 

11 The next day she returned tothecharge. 
Fnr the first time in her life, she con- 
descended to arguments and ex- 
planations. In vain did she try to 
prove to her husband that there 
were debts and debts, and that she 
could not treat a Prince of the 
blood like her coachmaker* 

11 All this eloquence was lost. 
My grandfather was inflexible. My 
grandmother did not know where 
to turn. Happily she was ac- 
quainted with a man who was very 
celebrated at this time. You have heard of 
the Count of St. Germain, about whom so 
many marvellous stories were told. You 
know that he passed for a sort of Wander- 
ing Jew, and that he was said to possess an 
elixir of life and the philosopher's stone. 

" Some people laughed at him as a charla- 
tan. Casanova, in his memoirs, says that 
he was a spy. However that may be, in 
spite of the mystery of his life, St, (Jcrmain 
was much sought after in good society, and 
was really an agreeable man. Even to this 
day my grandmother has preserved a 
genuine affection for him, and she becomes 
quite angry when anyone speaks of him with 

4j It occurred to her that he might be able 
to advance the sum of which she was in 
need, and she wrote a note begging him to 
eall. The old magician came at once, and 
found her plunged in the deepest despair. 
In two or three words she told him every- 
thing ; related to him her misfortune and 
the cruelty of her husband, adding that she 
had no hope except in his friendship and 
bis obliging disposition, 




"'Madam/ *aid St + Germain, after a few 
moments' reflection, 4 I could easily ad- 
vanee you the money you want, but I am 
sure that you would have no rest until you 
had repaid me, and I do not want to get 
you out of one trouble in order to place 
you in another There is another way of 
settling the matter. You must regain the 
money you have lost.' 

41 ( But, my dear friend/ answered my 
grandmother, * I have already told you that 
I have nothing left, 1 

14 *That does not matter/ answered St. 
Germain, * Listen 
to me, and I will 

" He then com* 
nmnicated to her 
a secret which any 
of you would, I am 
sure, give a good l 
deal to possess,'* 

All the young 
officers gave their 
full attention, 
Tomski stopped to 
light his Turkish 
pipe, swallowed a 
mouthful of smoke, 
and then went on* 

"That very 
evening my grand- 
mother went to 
Versailles to play 
at the Queen's 
table. The Duke 
of Orleans held 
the bank. My 
grandmother in- 
vented a little story 
by way of excuse 
for not having 
paid her debt, and 
then sat down at 
the table, and 
began to stake* 
She took three cards, She won with the 
first ; doubled her stake on the second, and 

won again ; doubled on the third, and still 

won* ' 

11 Merc luck ! " said one of the young 


" What p. Lale I Tl cried Hermann- 

il Were the cards marked ? " said a third* 

"I don't think so/' replied Tomski, 


"And you mean to say/' exclaimed 

Naroumoff, *' that you have a grandmother 

Who knows thv uamus of three winning 

cards, and you have never made her tell 
them to you ?" 

M That is the very deuce of it,* 1 answered 
Tomski. u She had three sons, of whom 
my father was one ; all three were deter- 
mined gamblers, and not one of them was 
able to extract her secret from her, though 
it would have been of immense advantage 
to them, and to me also. Listen to what 


uncle told me about it, Count Ivan 


Hitch, and he told me on his word of 

"Tchaplitzki — the one you remember who 
died in poverty after devouring millions — 
lost one day, when he was a young man, to 
Zoriteh about three hundred thousand 
roubles. He was in despair. My grand- 
mother, who had no mercy for the extrava- 
gance of young men, made an exception— 
I do not know why — in favour of Tchap- 
litzki. She gave him three cards, telling 
him to play them one after the other, and 

""UIWe&Iv ■faster" limc his 



word of honour that he would never after- 
wards touch a card as long as he lived. 
Accordingly Tchaplitzki went to Zoritch 
and asked for his revenge. On the first 
card he staked fifty thousand roubles. He 
won, doubled the stake, and won again. 
Continuing his system he ended by gaining 
more than he had lost. 

44 But it is six o'clock ! It is really time 
to go to bed." 

Everyone emptied his glass and the party 
broke up. 


Thk old Countess Anna Fedotovna was in 
her dressing-room, seated before her looking- 
glass. Three maids were in attendance. 
One held her pot of rouge, another a box of 
black pins, a third an enormous lace cap, 
with flaming ribbons. The Countess had 
no longer the slightest pretence to beauty, 
but she preserved all the habits of her 
youth. She dressed in the style of fifty years 
before, and gave as much time and attention 
to her toilet as a fashionable beauty of the 
last century. Her companion was working 
at a frame in a corner of the window. 

"Good morning, grandmother,' } said the 
young officer, as he entered the dressing- 
room. " Good morning, Mademoiselle Lise. 
Grandmother, I have come to ask you a 

" What is it, Paul ? " 
" I want to introduce to you one of my 
friends, and to ask you to give him an invi- 
tation to your ball." 

44 Bring him to the ball and introduce 
him to me there. Did you go yesterday to 
the Prip cess's ? " 

" Certainly. It was delightful ! We 
danced until five o'clock in the morning. 
Mademoiselle Eletzki was charming." 

"My dear nephew, you are really not 
difficult to please. As to beauty, you should 
have seen her grandmother, the Princess 
Daria Petrovna. But she must be very old, 
the Princess Daria Petrovna ! " 

44 How do you mean old ? " cried Tomski 
thoughtlessly ; " she died seven years ago." 
The young lady who acted as companion 
raised her head and made a sign to the 
officer, who then remembered that it 
was an understood thing to conceal from 
the Princess the death of any of her con- 
temporaries. He bit his lips. The Countess, 
however, was not in any way disturbed on 
hearing that her old friend was no longer 
in this world. 

41 Dead ! " she said, " and I never knew it ! 

Digitized by Lit 

We were maids of honour in the same year, 
and when we were presented, the Empress " 
— and the old Countess related for the 
hundredth time an anecdote of her young 
days. " Paul," she said, as she finished her 
story, " help me to get up. Lisabeta, where 
is my snuff-box ? " 

And, followed by the three maids, she 
went behind a great screen to finish her 
toilet. Tomski was now alone with the 

44 Who is the gentleman you wish to in- 
troduce to madame ? " asked Lisabeta. 
44 Naroumoff. Do you know him ? " 
44 No. Is he in the army ? " 
" Yes." 

44 In the Engineers ? " 
44 No, in the Horse Guards. Why did 
you think he was in the Engineers ? " 

The young lady smiled, but made no 

" Paul," cried the Countess from behind 
the screen, "send me a new novel; no 
matter what. Only see that it is not in the 
style of the present day." 

"What style would you like, grand- 
mother ? " 

44 A novel in which the hero strangles 
neither his father nor his mother, and in 
which no one gets drowned. Nothing 
frightens me so much as the idea of getting 

" But how is it possible to find you such 
a book ? Do you want it in Russian ? " 

" Are there any novels in Russian ? How- 
ever, send me something or other. You 
won't forget ? " 

44 1 will not forget, grandmother. I am 
in a great hurry. Good-bye, Lisabeta. What 
made you fancy Naroumoff was in the 
Engineers ? " and Tomski took his de- 

Lisabeta, left alone, took out her em-, 
broidery, and sat down close to the window. 
Immediately afterwards, in the street, at 
the corner of a neighbouring house, ap- 
peared a young officer. The sight of him 
made the companion blush to her ears. 
She lowered her head, and almost concealed 
it in the canvas. At this moment the 
Countess returned, fully dressed. 

44 Lisabeta," she said, 44 have the horses 
put in ; we will go out for a drive." 

Lisabeta rose from her chair, and began 
to arrange her embroidery. 

44 Well, my dear child, are you deaf ? Go 
and tell them to put the horses in at once/' 
44 1 am going," replied the young lady, 
as she went out into the ante-chamber. 




A servant nnw came in, bringing some 
books from Prince Paul Alexandrovitch, 

" Say, I am much obliged to him. Lisa- 
beta ! Lisabeta ! Where has she run off 

" I was going to dress. 1 ' 

*' Wc have plenty of time, my dear. Sit 
down, take the first volume, and read to 

The companion took the book and read 
a few lines. 

11 Louder," said the 
Countess. H What is the 
matter with you ? Have 
you a cold ? Wait a 
moment, bring me that 
stool, A little closer : 
that will do, 7 ' 

Lisabeta read two pages 
of the book, 

" Throw that 
stupid book 
away," said the 
Countess. li What 
nonsense I Send 
it back to Prince r _i 
Paul, and tell him 

I am much obliged 
to him ; and the 
carriage, is it never 
coming ? " 

"Here it is," 
Teplied Lisabeta, 
going to the win- 

iL And now you 
are not dressed. 
Why tin you al- 
ways keep me 
waiting ? It is intolerable* ! ' 

Lisabeta ran to her room 
She had scarcely been then 
two minutes when the Count 
ess rang with all her might 
Her maids rushed in at out 
door and her valet at tht 

11 You do not seem to hcai 
me when I ring/ 1 she cried 

II Go and tell Lisabeta thai 
for her. 1 ' 

At this moment Lisabeta entered, wearing 
a new walking dress and a fashi unable bonnet. 

41 At last, miss/* cried the Countess. u Hut 
what is (.hat you have got on ? and why ? 
For whom are you dressing ? What sort of 
weather is it ? Quite stormy, I believe/ 1 
- "No, your Excellency," said the valet ; 
" it is exceedingly fine." 

"What do you know about it? Open 
the ventilator. Just what I told you ! A 
frightful wind, and as icy as can be. Un- 
harness the horses. Lisabeta, my child, we 
will not go out to-day. It was scarcely 
worth while to dress so much/' 

"What an existence ! " said the com- 
panion to herself, 

Lisbeta Ivanovna was, in fact, a most un- 


by Google 

happy creature. If The bread of the stranger 
is bitter," says Dante, u and his staircase 
hard to climb/* But who can tell the tor- 
ments of a pnor little companion attached 
to an old lady of quality ? The Countess 
had all the caprices of a woman spoilt by the 
world. She was avaricious and egotistical , 
and though §lJ-,^effcgpfie of herself "now that 




she had cea&ed to play an active part in 
society, She never missed a ball, and she 
dressed and painted in the style of a bygone 
age. She remained in a corner of the 
room, where she seemed to have been placed 
expressly to serve as a scarecrow. Every 
one on coming in went to her and made 
her a low bow, but this ceremony once at 
an end no one spoke a word to hen She 
received the whole city at her house, observ- 
ing the strictest etiquette, and never failing 
to give to everyone his or her proper name. 
Her innumerable servants, growing pale and 
fat in the ante-chamber, did absolutely as 
they liked, so that 
the house was 
pillaged as if its 
owner were really 
dead. Lisabeta 
passed her life in 
continual torture. 
If she made tea 
she was re- 
proached with 
wasting the sugar. 
If she read a novel 
to the Countess 
she was held re- 
sponsible for all 
the absurdities of 
the author. If 
she went out with 
the noble lady for 
a walk or drive, 
it was she who 
was to blaijie if 
the weather was 
bad or the pave- 
ment muddy. Her 
salary, more than 
modest, was never 
punctually paid, 
and she was ex- 
pected to dress 
14 like everyone 
else 1 '; that is to say, like 
very few people indeed. 
When she went into 
society her position was 
sad. Everyone knew her ; 
no one paid her any attention. At a 
ball she sometimes danced, but only when 
a vts-a-vis was wanted. Women would 
come up to her, take her by the arm, 
and lead her out of the room if their 
dress required attending to + She had her 
portion of self-respect, and felt deeply the 
misery of her position. She looked with 
impatience for a liberator to break her 

Digitized hyXii 

chain. But the young men, prudent in the 
midst of their affected giddiness, took care not 
to honour her with their attentions ; though 
Lisabeta Ivanovna was a hundred times 
prettier than the shameless or stupid girls 
whom they surrounded with their homage. 
More than once she slunk away from the 
spJeudour of the drawing-room, to shut her- 
self up alone in her little bed-room, 
furnished with an old screen and a pieced 
carpet, a chest of drawers, a small looking- 
glass, and a wooden bedstead. There she 
shed tears at her ease, by the light of a 
tallow taidle in a tin candlestick. 

One morning- 
it was two days 
after the party at 
Naroumoff'Sj and 
a week before the 
scene we have 
just sketched — 
Lisabeta was sit- 
ting at her em- 
broidery before 
the w i n d o w f 
when, looking 
carelessly into the 
street, she saw an 
officer, in the 
uniform of the 
Engineers, stand* 
ing motionless 
with his eyes fixed 
upon her. She 
lowered her head, 
and applied her* 
self to her work 
attentively than 
Five minutes 
afterwards she looked 
mechanically into the 
street, and the officer 
was still in the same 
place. Not being in 
the habit of exchanging 
glances with young men 
who passed by her win- 
dow, she remained with 
her eyes fixed on her 
work for nearly two 
hours, until she was told that lunch was 
ready. She got up to put her embroidery 
away, and, while doing so, looked into the 
street, and saw the officer still in the same 
place. This seemed to her very strange. 
After lunch she went to the window 
with a certain i mot ion, but the officer of 
Engineers was no longer in the street* 
She thought no more uf him. But two days 



t \ er. 




afterwards, just as she was getting into the 
carriage with the Countess, she sawhim once 
more, standing straight before the door. His 
face was half concealed4)ya fur collar, but his 
black eyes sparkled beneath his helmet. 
Lisabeta was afraid, without knowing why, 
and she trembled as she took her seat in the 

On returning home, she rushed with a 
beating heart towards the window. The 
officer was in his habitual place, with his 
eyes fixed ardently upon her. She at once 
withdrew, burning at the same time with 
curiosity, and moved by a strange feeling, 
which she now experienced for the first 

No day now passed but the young officer 
showed himself beneath the window. 
Before long a dumb acquaintance was 
established between them. Sitting at her 
work she felt his presence, and when she 
raised her head she looked at him for a 
long time every day. The young man 
seemed full of gratitude for these innocent 

She observed, with the deep and rapid 
perceptions of youth, that a sudden redness 
covered the officer's pale cheeks as soon as 
their eyes met. After about a week she 
would smile at seeing him for the first 

When Tomski asked his grandmother's 
permission to present one of his friends, the 
heart of the poor young girl beat strongly, 
and when she heard that it was Naroumoff, 
she bitterly repented having compromised 
her secret by letting it out to a giddy young 
man like Paul. 

Hermann was the son of a German settled 
in Russia, from whom he had inherited a 
small sum of money. Firmly resolved to 
preserve his independence, he had made it 
a principle not to touch his private income. 
He lived on his pay, and did not allow him- 
self the slightest luxury. He was not very 
communicative ; and his reserve rendered 
it difficult for his comrades to amuse them- 
selves at his expense. 

Under an assumed calm he concealed 
strong passions and a highly-imaginative 
disposition. But he was always master of 
himself, and kept himself free from the 
ordinary faults of young men. Thus, a 
gambler by temperament, he never touched 
a card, feeling, as he himself said, that his 
position did not allow him to " risk the 
necessary in view of the superfluous. " Yet 
he would pass entire nights before a card- 
table, watching with feverish anxiety the 

Digitized by Google 

rapid changes of the game. The anecdote 
of Count St. Germain's three cards had 
struck his imagination, and he did nothing 
but think of it all that night. 

" If," he said to himself next day as he 
was walking along the streets of St. Peters- 
burg, " if she woultt only tell me her secret 
— if she would only name the three winning 
cards ! I must get presented to her, that I 
may pay my court and gain her confidence. 
Yes ! And she is eighty-seven ! She may 
die this week — to-morrow perhaps. But 
after all, is there a word of truth in the 
story? No! Economy, Temperance, Work ; 
these are my three winning cards. With 
them I can double my capital ; increase it 
tenfold. They alone can ensure my inde- 
pendence and prosperity." 

Dreaming in this way as he walked along, 
his attention was attracted by a house built 
in an antiquated style of architecture. The 
street was full of carriages, which passed 
one by one before the old house, now 
brilliantly illuminated. As the people 
stepped out of the carriages Hermann saw 
now the little feet of a young woman, now 
the military boot of a general. Then came 
a clocked stocking ; then, again, a diplo- 
matic pump. Fur-lined cloaks and coats 
passed in procession before a gigantic 

Hermann stopped. " Who lives here ? " 
he said to a watchman in his box. 

"The Countess Anna Fedotovna." It 
was Tomski's grandmother. 

Hermann started. The story of the three 
cards came once more upon his imagination. 
He walked to and fro before the house, 
thinking of the woman to whom it belonged, 
of her wealth and her mysterious power. 
At last he returned to his den. But for 
some time he could not get to sleep ; and 
when at last sleep came upon him, he saw, 
dancing before his eyes, cards, a green table, 
and heaps of roubles and bank-notes. He 
saw himself doubling stake after stake, 
always winning, and then filling his pockets 
with piles of coin, and stuffing his pocket- 
book with countless bank-notes. When he 
awoke, he sighed to find that his treasures 
were but creations of a disordered fancy ; 
and, to drive such thoughts from him, he 
went out for a walk. But he had not gone far 
when he found himself once more before the 
house of the Countess. He seemed to have 
been attracted there by some irresistible 
force. He stopped, and looked up at the 
windows. There he saw a girl's head with 
beautiful black hair, leaning gracefully over 

a I I I _' I 1 1 





a book or an embroidery-frame. The head 
was lifted, and he saw a fresh complexion 
and hlack eyes. 

This moment decided his fate. 


LrSABFTA was just taking olT her shawl and 
her bonnet, when the Countess sent for her. 
She had had the horses put in a pain. 

While two footmen were helping the old 
lady into the carriage Lisabeta saw the 
young officer at her side. She felt him 
take her by the hand, lost her head, and 
found, when the young officer had walked 
away, that he had left a paper between her 
fingers. She hastily concealed it in her 

During the whole of the drive she neither 
saw nor heard. When they were in the 
carriage together the Countess was in the 
habit of questioning Lisabeta perpetually. 

" Who is that man that bowed to us ? 
What is the nanvj of this bridge ? What is 
there written on that signboard ? 1T 

by Google 

Lisabeta now gave the 
most absurd ans.wers t and 
was accordingly scolded by 
the Countess. 

sh What is the matter with 
you, my child ? ,f she asked, " What are 
you thinking about ? Or do you really not 
hear me? I speak distinctly enough, how- 
ever, and I have not yet lost my head, 
have I?" 

Lisabeta was not listening. When she 
got back to the house she ran to her room, 
locked the do^r, and took the scrap of paper 
from her glove. It was not sealed, and 
it was impossible, therefore, not to read it. 
The letter contained protestations of love. 
It was tender, respectful, and translated 
word for word from a German novel. But 
Lisabeta did not read German, and she 
was quite delighted. She was, however, 
much embarrassed. For the first time in 
her life she had a secret. Correspond with 
a young man ! The idea of such a thing 
frightened her. How imprudent she had 
been ! She had reproached herself, but 
knew not now what to do* 

Cease to do her work at the window; and 
by persistent coldness try and disgust the 
young officer ? Send him back his letter ? 
Answer him in a firm, decided manner ? 
What line of conduct was she to pursue ? 
She had no friend, no one to advise her. 
She at last decided to send an answer. She 
sat down at her little table, took pen and 
paper, and began to think. More than once 
she wrote a sentence and then tore up thg 
Original from 




paper. What she had written seemed too 
stiff, or else it was wanting in reserve. At 
last, after much trouble, she succeeded in 
composing a few lines which seemed to 
meet the case, u I believe," she wrote, 
" that your intentionsare those of an honour- 
able man, and that you would not wish to 
offend me by any thoughtless conduct. But 
you must understand that our acquaintance 


cannot begjpi in this way. I return your 
letter, and trust that you will not give me 
cause to regret my imprudence, 1 ' 

Next day as soon as Hermann made his 
appearance, Lisabeta left her embroidery, 
and went into the drawing-room, opened 
the ventilator, and threw her letter into 
the street, making sure that the young 
officer would pick it up, 

Hermann T in fact, at once saw it, and, 

by L^OOgle 

picking it up, entered a confectioner's shop 
in order to read it. Finding nothing dis- 
couraging in it, he went home sufficiently 
pleased with the first step in his love ad- 

Some days afterwards, a young person 
with lively eyes called to see Miss Lisabeta, 
on the part of a milliner. Lisabeta won- 
dered what she could want, and suspected, 
as she received her, some secret intention. 
She was much surprised, however, when 
she recognised, on the letter that was now 
handed to her, the writing of Hermann. 

11 You make a mistake,' 1 she said, 
" this letter is not for me, 11 

" I beg your pardon,*' said the 
milliner, with a slight smile ; u be 
kind enough to read it." 

Lisabeta glanced at it. Hermann 
was asking for an appointment. 

" Impossible ! '' she cried, 
alarmed both at the boldness of 
the request, and at the manner in 
which it was made. 4i This letter 
is not for me," she repeated ; and 
she tore it into a hundred pieces. 

41 If the letter was not for you, 
why did you tear it up ? You 
should have given it me back, that 
I might take it to the person it 
was meant for/' 

li True," said Lisabeta, quite 
disconcerted- " But bring me no 
more letters, and tell the person 
who gave you this one that he 
ought to blush for his conduct." 

Hermann, however, was not a 
man to give up what he had once 
undertaken. Every day Lisabeta received 
a fresh letter from him, ■ — sent now in one 
way , now in another, They were no longer 
translated from the German, Hermann 
wrote under the influence of a commanding 
passion, and spoke a language which was 
his own. Lisabeta could not hold out 
against such torrents of eloquence. She 
received the letters, kept them, and at last 
answered them. Every day her answers 
were longer and more affectionate, until at 
last she threw out of the window a letter 
couched as follows :— 

"This evening there is a ball at the 
Embassy. The Countess will be there. We 
shall remain until two in the morning. 
You may manage to see me alone. As 
soon as the Countess leaves home, that is 
to say towards eleven o'clock > the servants 
are sure to go out, and there will be no 
one left but the porter, who will be sure to 
Original from 




be asleep in his box* Enter as soon as it 
strikes eleven, and go upstairs as fast as 
possible. If you find anyone in the ante- 
chamber, ask whether the Countess is at 
home, and you will be told that she is out, 
and, in that case, you must resign yourself, 
and go away, In all probability, however, 
you will meet no one. The Countess's 
women are together in a distant room. 
When you are once in the ante-chamber, 
turn to the left, and walk straight on, until 
you reach the Countess's bedroom. There, 
behind a large screen, you will see two 
doors. The one on the right leads to a 
dark room. The one on the left leads to a 
corridor, at the end of which is a little 
winding staircase , which leads to my par- 

At ten o'clock Hermann 
was already on duty before 
the Countess's door* It was 
a frightful night. The winds 
had been unloosed, and the 
snow was falling in large 
flakes ; the lamps gave an 
uncertain light ; the streets 
were deserted ; from time to 
time passo.1 a sleigh, drawn 
by a wretched hack, on the 
look-out for a fare. Covered / 
by a thick overcoat, Her- ' 
maun felt neither the wind 
nor the snow. At last the 
Countess's carriage drew up. 
He saw two huge footmen 
come forward and take be- 
neath the arms a dilapidated 
spectre, and place it on the 
cushions, well wrapped up 
in an enormous fur cloak. 
Immediately afterwards, in 
a cloak of lighter make, her 
head crowned with natural 
flowers, came Lisabeta, who 
sprang into the carriage like 
a dart. The door was closed, 
and the carriage rolled on 
softly over the snow. 

The porter closed the street door, and 
soon the windows of the first floor became 
dark- Silence reigned throughout the house. 
Hermann walked backwards and forwards ; 
then coming- to a lamp ho looked at his 
watch. It was twenty minutes to eleven. 
Leaning against the lamp-post, his eyes 
fixed on the long hand of his watch, he 
counted impatiently the minutes which had 
yet to pass. At eleven o'clock precisely 

the street door t and went into the vestibule, 
which was well lighted. As it happened 
the porter was not there. With a firm and 
rapid step he rushed up the staircase and 
reached the ante-chamber, Therc p before a 
lamp, a footman was sleeping, stretched out 
in a dirty greasy dressing-gown. Hermann 
passed quickly before him and crossed the 
dining-room and the drawing-room, where 
there was no light But the lamp of the 
ante-chamber helped him to see. At last 
he reached the Counter's bedmnm. Before 



Hermann walked up the step?, pushed o\ 


a screen covered with old icons [sacred 
pictures] a golden lamp was burning. Gilt 
arm-chairs, sofas of faded colours, furnished 
with soft cushions, were arranged symme- 
trically along the walls, which were hung 
with China silk. He saw two large por- 
traits, painted by Madame le Brun. One 
represented a man of forty, stout and full 
coloured, dressed in a light green coat, 
with a decoration on his breast. The 
second portrait was that of an elegant young 
woman, withiqinaWpjHine nose, powdst^d 




hair railed back 

on the temples, 

and with a rose 

over her ear. 


might be seen 

shepherds and 

shepherdesses in 

Dresden china, 

with vases of all 

shapes, clocks by 

Leroy, work- 
baskets, fans, and 

all the thousand 

playthings for 

the use of ladies 

of fashion, dis- 
covered in the 

last century, at 

the time of Mont- 

golfier's balloons 

and Mesmer T s 

animal magnetism, 

Hermann passed behind the 

screen, which concealed a little 

iron bedstead. He saw the two 

doors ; the one on the right 

leading to the dark room, the 

one on the left to the corridor, 

He opened the Utter, saw the 
staircase which led to the poor little com- 
panion's parlour, and then, closing this door, 
went into the dark room. 

The time passed slowly. Everything was 
quiet in the house, The drawing-room 
clock struck midnight, and again there was 
silence, Hermann was standing up, leaning 
against the stove> in which there was no 
fire. He was calm ; but his heart beat with 
quick pulsations, like that of a man deter- 
mined to brave all dangers he might have 
to meet, because he knows them to be in- 
evitable. He heard one o'clock strike ; 
then two ; and soon afterwards the distant 
roll of a carriage. He now, in spite of hin^ 
self, experienced some emotion. The 
carriage approached rapidly and stopped. 
Theie was at once a great noise of servants 
running about the staircases, and a enn^ 
fusion of voices. Suddenly the rooms were 
all lit up, and the Countess's three anti- 
quated maids came at once into the bed- 
room. At last appeared the Countess her- 

The walking imiminv *ank intu a large 
Voltaire arm-chair. Hermann tooked 
through the crack in the donr ; he saw 
Lisabeta pass clo>e to him, and heard her 
hurried step as she went up the little 


^ Google 


winding staircase. For a moment he felt 
something like remorse ; but it soon passed 
off, and his heart was once more of 

The Countess began to undress before a 
looking-glass. Her head-dress of roses was 
taken off, and. her powdered wig separated 
from her own hair, which was very short and 
quite white. Pins fell in showers around 
her. At last she was in her dressing-gown 
and her night-cap, and in this costume, 
more suitable to her age, was less hideous 
than before. 

Like most old people, the Countess was 
tormented by sleeplessness. She had her 
armchair rolled towards one of the windows, 
and told her maids to leave hen The lights 
were put out, and the room was lighted 
only by the lamp which burned before the 
holy images. The Countess, sallow and 
wrinkled, balanced herself gently from right 
to left. In her dull eyes could be read 
an utter absence of thought ; and as she 
moved from side to side, one might have 
said that she did so not by any action of 
the will, but through some secret mechan- 

Suddenly this death's-head assumed a 

new expression ; the lips ceased to tremble, 

Original from 





and the eyes became alive, A strange 
man had appeared before the Countess ! 

It was Hermann. 

u Do not be alarmed, madam/' said Her- 
mann, in a law voice, but very distinctly, 
" For the love of Heaven, do not be alarmed, 
I do not wish to do you the slightest harm ; 
on the contrary, I come to implore a favour 
of you. 1 ' 

The old woman looked at him in silence, 
as if she did not understand. Thinking she 
was deaf, he leaned towards her ear and 
repeated what he had said ; but the 
Countess still remained silent. 

"You can ensure the happiness of my 
whole life, and without its costing you 
a farthing, i know that you can name to 
me three cards " 

The Countess now understood what he 

"It was a joke," she interrupted. "I 
swear to you it wis only a joke/ 1 

"No, madam/' replied Hermann in an 
angry tone. " Remember Tchaplitzki, and 
how you enabled him to win/ 1 

The Countess was agitated, For a moment 
her features expressed strong emotion ; but 
they soon resumed their former duln ess, 

"Cannot you name to me," said Her* 
mann, " three winning cards ? T ' 

The Countess remained silent. M Why 
keep this secret for your great- grandchil- 
dren," he continued, "They are rich 
enough without ; they do not know the 
value of money, Of what profit would 
your three cards be to them? They are 
debauchees. The man who cannot keep 
his inheritance will die in want, though he 
had the science of demons at his command. 
I am a steady man* I know the value of 
money. Your three cards will not be lost 
upon me. Come ! " 

He stopped tremblingly, awaiting a reply. 
The Countess did not utter a word. 
Hermann went upon his knees, 

" If your heart has ever known the 
passion of love; if you can ■ remember its 
sweet ecstasies ; if you have ever been 
touched by the cry of a new-born babe ; if 
any human feeling has ever caused your 
heart to beat, I entreat you by the love of 
a husband, a lover, a mother, by all that is 
sacred in lift, not to reject my prayer. Tell 
me your secret ! Reflect ! You are old ; 
you have not long to live ! Remember 
that the happiness of a man is in your 
hands ; that not only myself, but my child- 
ren and my grandchildren will bless your 
memory as a saint/' 



The old Countess answered not a word* 

Hermann rose, and drew a pistol from 
his pocket. 

u Hag ! " he exclaimed, H I will make you 
speak. u 

At the sight of the pistol the Countess 
for the second time showed agitation. 
Her head shook violently ; she stretched out 
her hands as if to put the weapon aside. 
Then suddenly she fell back motionless. 

41 Come, don't be childish!" said Her- 
mann. "I adjure you for the last time; 
will you name the three cards ? " 

The Countess did not answer, Hermann 
saw that she was dead ! 


Lisabkta was sitting in her room, 
still in her ball dress, lost in the 
deepest meditation. On her return to the 
house } she had sent away her maid, and 
had gone upstairs to her room, trembling 
at the idea of finding Hermann there ; 
desiring, indeed, not to find him, One glance 
showed lifOthlitlhbf Bonn not there, and she 




gave thanks to Providence that he had 
missed the appointment. She sat down 
pensively, without thinking of taking off 
her cloak, and allowed to pass through her 
memory all the circumstances of the intrigue 
which had begun such a short time back, 
and had already advanced so far* Scarcely 
three weeks had passed since she had first 
seen the young officer from her window, 
and already she had written to him, and he 
had succeeded in inducing her to make an 
appointment. She knew his name, and that 
was all. She had received a quantity of 
letters from him, but he had never spoken 


to her ; she did not know the sound of his 
voice, and until that evening, strangely 
enough, she had never heard him spoken of. 
But that very evening Tomski, fancying 
he had noticed that the young Princess 
Pauline, to whom he had been paying 
assiduous court, was flirting, contrary to 
her custom, with another man, had 
wished to revenge himself by making a 
show of indifference. With this noble 
object he had invited Lisabeta to take part 
in an interminable mazurka ; but he teased 
her immensely about her partiality for 
Engineer officers, and pretending all the 
time to know much more than he really 
did, hazarded purely in fun a few guesses 

which were so happy that Lisabeta thought 
her secret must have been discovered, 

" But who tells you all this ? " she said 
with a smile. 

" A friend of the very officer you know, 
a most original man/' 

11 And who is this man that is so original ? Tl 
" His name is Hermann." 
She answered nothing, but her hands 
and feet seemed to be of ice. 

11 Hermann is a hero of romance/' con- 
tinued Tomski, u He has the profile of 
Napoleon, and the soul of Mephistopheles, 
I believe he has at least three crimes on his 
conscience. . . . But 
how pale you are ! TT 

" I have a bad head- 
ache. But what did 
this Mr. Hermann tell 
you ? Is not that his 
name ? ' 

11 Hermann is very 
much displeased with 
his friend : with the 
Engineer officer who has 
made your acquaintance. 
He says that in his place he 
would behave very differ- 
ently. But I am quite sure 
that Hermann himself has 
designs upon you. At least, 
he seems to listen with re- 
markable interest to all that his friend 
tells him about you." 
14 And where has he seen me ? " 
" Perhaps in church, perhaps in the 
street ; heaven knows where." 
At this moment three ladies came forward 
according to the custom of the mazurka, 
and asked Tomski to choose between 
44 forget fulness and regret, '' :; 

And the conversation which had so pain- 
fully excited the curiosity of Lisabeta came 
to an end. 

The lady who, in virtue of the infidelities 
permitted by the mazurka, had just been 
chosen by Tomski, was the Princess Pauline, 
During the rapid evolutions which the 
figure obliged them to make, there was a 
grand explanation between them, until at 
last he conducted her to a chair, and re- 
turned to his partner. 

But Tomski could now think no more, 
either of Hermann or Lisabeta, and he tried 
in vain to resume the conversation. But 
the mazurka was coming to an end, and 

•The figures and fashions of the mazurka are 
^produced inCftqmtiUftoPti Western Europe.— 




immediately afterwards the old Countess 
rose to go, 

Tomski's mysterious phrases were nothing 
more than the usual platitudes of the 
mazurka, but they had made a deep 
impression upon the heart of the poor little 
companion. The portrait sketched by 
Tomski had struck her as very exact ; and 
with her romantic ideas, she saw in the 
rather ordinary countenance of her adorer 
something to fear and admire. She was 
now sitting down with her cloak off, with 
bare shoulders ; her head, crowned with 
flowers, falling forward from fatigue, when 
suddenly the door opened and Hermann 
entered. She shuddered. 

4i Where were you ? " she said, trembling 
all over. 

"In the Countess's bedroom. I have 
just left her," replied Hermann. u She is 
dead. M 

" Great heavens ! What are you saying ? " 

" I am afraid," he said, " that I am the 
cause of her death." 

Lisabeta looked at him in consternation, 
and remembered Tomski \s words : " He 
has at least three crimes on his conscience." 

Hermann sat down by the window, and 
told everything. The young girl listened 
with terror. 

So those letters so full of passion, those 
burning expressions, this daring obstinate 
pursuit — all this had been inspired by 
anything but love ! Money alone had 
inflamed the man's soul. She, who had 
nothing but a heart to offer, how could she 
make him happy ? Poor child ! she had 
been the blind instrument of a robber, of 
the murderer of her old benefactress. She 
wept bitterly in the agony of her repent- 
ance. Hermann watched her in silence ; 
but neither the tears of the unhappy girl, 
nor her beauty, rendered more touching by 
her grief, could move his heart of iron. 
He had no remorse in thinking of the 
Countess's death. One sole thought dis- 
tressed -him — the irreparable loss of the 
secret which was to have made his fortune. 

" You are a monster ! " said Lisabeta, 
after a long silence. 

" I did not mean to kill her," replied 
Hermann coldly. " My pistol was not 

They remained for some time without 
speaking, without looking at one another. 
The day was breaking, and Lisabeta put 
out her candle. She wiped her eyes, 
drowned in tears, and raised them towards 
Hermann. He was standing close to the 

window, his arms crossed, with a frown on 
his forehead. In this attitude he reminded 
her involuntarily of the portrait of Napoleon. 
The resemblance overwhelmed her. 

" How am I to get you away ? " she said 
at last. " I thought you might go out by 
the back stairs. But it would be necessary 
to go through the Countess's bedroom, and 
I am too frightened." 

" Tell me how to get to the staircase, and 
I will go alone." 

She went to a drawer, took out a key, 
which she handed to Hermann, and gave 
him the necessary instructions. Hermann 
took her icy hand, kissed her on the fore- 
head, and departed. 

He went down the staircase, and entered 
the Countess's bedroom. She was seated 
quite stiff in her armchair ; but her 
features were in no way contracted. He 
stopped for a moment, and gazed into her 
face as if to make sure of the terrible reality. 
Then he entered the dark room, and, feeling 
behind the tapestry, found the little door 
which opened on to a staircase. As he 
went down it, strange ideas came into his 
head. " Going down this staircase," he 
said to himself, " some sixty years ago, at 
about this time, may have been seen some 
man in an embroidered coat with powdered 
wig, pressing to his breast a cocked hat : 
some gallant who has long been buried ; 
and now the heart of his aged mistress has 
ceased to beat." 

At the end of the staircase he found 
another door, which his key opened, and he 
found himself in the corridor which led to 
the street. 


Three days after this fatal night, at nine 
o'clock in the morning, Hermann entered 
the convent where the last respects were 
to be paid to the mortal remains of the old 
Countess. He felt no remorse, though he 
could not deny to himself that he was the 
poor woman's assassin. Having no religion, 
he was, as usual in such cases, very super- 
stitious ; believing that the dead Countess 
might exercise a malignant influence on 
his life, he thought to appease her spirit by 
attending her funeral. 

The church was full of people, and it 
was difficult to get in. The body had been 
placed on a rich catafalque, beneath a 
canopy of velvet. The Countess was 
reposing in an open coffin, her hands joined 
on her breast, with a dress of white satin, 
and he&d-dressl fflfntace. Around the 



catafalque the family was assembled, the 
servants in black caftans with a knot of 
ribbons on the shoulder, exhibiting the 
colours of the Countess's coat of arms. 
Each of them held a wax candle in his 
hand. The relations, in deep mourning- 
children T grandchildren, and great-grand- 
children — were all present ; but none of 
them wept. 

To have shed tears would haw looked 
like affectation. The Countess was so old 
that her death could have taken no one by 
surprise, and she 
had long been 
looked upon as 
already out of the 
world. The fune- 
ral sermon was de- 
livered by a cele- 
brated preacher, 
In a few simple, 
touching phrases 
he painted the 
final departure of 
the just, who had 
passed long years 
of contrite prepara- 
tion for a Chris- 
tian end. The 
service concluded 
in the midst of 
r espec t f u 1 silence. 
Then the relations 
went towards the 
defunct to take a 
last farewell. After 
them, in a long 
procession, all who 
had been invited 
to the ceremony 
bowed, for the last 
time, to her who 
for so many years 
had been a scare- 
crow at their enter- 
tainments. Finally 
came the Counter's household ; among 
them was remarked an old governess, of the 
same age as the deceased, supported by two 
women. She had not strength enough to 
kneel down, hut tears flowed from her eyes, 
as she kissed the hand of her old mistress. 

Jn his turn Hermann advanced towards 
the coffin. He knelt down for a moment 
on the flagstones, which were strewed with 
branches of yew. Then he rose, as pale as 
death, and walked up the steps of the 
catafalque. He bowed his head. But 
suddenly the dead woman seemed to be 




staring at him ; and with a mocking look she 
opened and shut one eye. Hermann by a 
sudden movement started and fell back- 
wards. Several persons hurried towards 
him. At the same moment, close to the 
church door, Lisa beta fainted. 

Throughout the day, Hermann suffered 
from a strange indisposition. In a quiet 
restaurant, where he took his meals, he, 
contrary to his habit, drank a great deal of 
wine, with the object of stupefying himself. 
But the wine had no effect 
but to excite his imagina- 
tion, and give fresh activ- 
ity to the ideas with which 
he was preoccupied, 

He went home earlier 
than usual ; lay 
down with his 
clothes on upon 
the bed, and fell 
v into a leaden sleep. 
I When he woke up 
\ it was night, and 
■i the room was 
: lighted up by the 
1 rays of the moon. 
|\ He looked at his 
watch ; it was a 
quarter to three. 
He could sleep no 
more. He sat up 
on the bed and 
thought of the old 
Countess. At this 
moment someone 
in the street passed 
the window, looked into the 
room, and then went on. 
Hermann scarcely noticed 
it ; but in another minute 
he heard the door of the 
ante - chamber open. He 
fell packwahds." thought that his orderly, 
drunk as usual, was returning 
from some nocturnal excursion ; but the 
step was one to which he was not accus- 
tomed. Somebody seemed to be softly 
walking over the floor in slippers. 

The door opened, and a woman, dressed 
entirely in white, entered the bedroom, Her- 
mann thought it must be his old nurse, and 
he asked himself what she could want at 
that time of night. 

But the woman in white, crossing the 
room with a rapid step, was now at the 
foot of his bed, and Hermann recognised the 

Original from - — — 




11 1 come to you against my wish/' she 
said iti a firm voice. " I am forced to grant 
your prayer. Three, seven, ace, will win, 
if played one after the other ; but you must 

' Marl.. ^■/I'./i.tWi 


"three, seven, ACS.* 

not play more than one card in twenty -four 
hours, and afterwards as long as you live 
you must never touch a card again. 1 
forgive you my death, on condition of 
your marrying my companion, Lisabeta 

With these words she walked towards the 
door, and gliding with her slippers over the 
floor, disappeared. Herman ti heard the door 
of the antc-ehambcr open, and soon after- 
wards saw a white figure pass along the 
street. It stopped for a moment before his 
window, as if to look at him. 

Hermann remained for some time as- 
tounded. Then he got up and went into 
the next room. His orderly, drunk as 
usual, was asleep on the floor. He had much 
difficulty in waking him, and then could 
not obtain from him the least explanation, 

by Google 

The door of the ante - chamber was 

Hermann went back to his bedroom, and 
wrote down all the details of his vision. 


Two fixed ideas can no more exist together 
in the moral world than in the physical 
two bodies can occupy the same place 
at tile same time ; and " Three, seven, 
ace 1 ' soon drove away Hermann's recollec- 
tion of the old Countess's last moments* 
11 Three, seven, ace " were now in his head 
to the exclusion of everything else. 

They followed him in his dreams, and 
appeared to him under strange forms, 
7 hrees seemed to be spread before him like 
magnolias, sevens took the form of Gothic 
doors, and aces became gigantic spiders. 

His thoughts concentrated themselves on 
one single point. How was he to profit by 
the secret so dearly purchased ? What if 
he applied for leave to travel ? At Paris, 
he said to himself he would find some 
gambling-house where, with his three cards, 
he could at once make his fortune. 

Chance soon came to his assistance, There 
was at Moscow a society of rich gamblers, 
presided over by the celebrated Tchek- 
alinski, w T ho had passed all his life playing 
at cards, and had amassed millions. For while 
he lost silver only, he gained bank-notes. 
His magnificent house, his excellent kitchen, 
his cordial manners, had brought him 
numerous friends and secured for him 
general esteem. 

When he came to St. Petersburg, the 
young men of the capital filled his rooms, 
forsaking balls for his card-parties, and pre- 
ferring the emotions of gambling to the 
fascinations of flirting. Hermann was taken 
to Tchekalinski by Naroumoff. They 
passed through a long suite of rooms, full 
of the most attentive, obsequious servants. 
The place was crowded. Generals and high 
officials were playing at whist ; young men 
were stretched out on the sofas, eating ices 
and smoking long pipes, In the principal 
room at the head of a long table, around 
which were assembled a score of players, 
the master of the house held a faro bank. 

He was a man of about sixty, with a 
sweet and noble expression of face, and hair 
white as snow. On his full, florid counte- 
nance might be read good humour and 
benevolence. His eyes shone with a per- 
petual smile. Naroumoff introduced Her- 
mann, Tchekalinski took him by the 

Original from 



hand, told him that he was glad to see him ? 
that no one stood on ceremony in his 
house ; and then went on dealing. The 
deal occupied some time, and stakes were 
made on more than thirty cards. Tchek- 
alinski waited patiently to allow the winners 
time to double their stakes, paid what he 
had lost, listened politely to all observa- 
tions, and, more politely still, put straight 
the corners of cards, when in a fit of absence 
some one had taken the liberty of turning 
them down. At last when the game was 
at an end, Tchekalinski collected the cards, 
shuffled them again, had them cut, and then 
dealt anew. 

44 Will you allow me to take a card ? " 
said Hermann, stretching out his arm above 
a fat man who occupied nearly the whole 
of one side of the table. Tchekalinski, with 
a gracious smile, bowed in consent. 
Naroumoff complimented Hermann, with a 
laugh, on the cessation of the austerity by 
which his conduct had hitherto been 
marked, and wished him all kinds of happi- 
ness on the occasion of his first appearance 
in the character of a gambler. 

44 There ! " said Hermann, after writing 
some figures on the back of his card. 

44 How much ? " asked the banker, half 
closing his eyes. u Excuse me, I cannot 

44 Forty-seven thousand roubles/ 1 said 

Everyone's eyes were directed toward the 
new player. 

44 He has lost his head," thought 

44 Allow me to point out to you," said 
Tchekalinski, with his eternal smile, " that 
you are playing rather high. We never 
put down here, as a first stake, more than 
a hundred and seventy-five roubles/' 

44 Very well," said Hermann ; u but do 
you accept my stake or not ? " 

Tchekalinski bowed in token of accepta- 
tion. " I only wish to point out to you," 
he said, 44 that although I am perfectly sure 
of my friends, I can only play against ready 
money. I am quite convinced that your 
word is as good as gold ; but to keep up 
the rules of the game, and to facilitate cal- 
culations, I should be obliged to you if you 
would put the money on your card." 

Hermann took a bank-note from his 
pocket and handed it to Tchekalinski, who, 
after examining it with a glance, placed it 
on Hermann's card. 

Then he began to deal. He turned up on 
the right a ten, and on the left a three. 

Digitized by GOOQIC 

44 1 win," said Hermann, exhibiting his 

A murmur of astonishment ran through 
the assembly. The' banker knitted his 
eyebrows, but speedily his face resumed its 
everlasting smile. 

44 Shall I settle at once ? " he asked. 

44 If you will be kind enough to do so," 
said Hermann. 

Tchekalinski took a bundle of bank-notes 
from his pocket-book, and paid. Hermann 
pocketed his winnings and left the table. 

Naroumoff was lost in astonishment. 
Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and 
went home. 

> The next evening he returned to the 
house. Tchekalinski again held the bank. 
Hermann went to the table, and this time 
the players hastened to make room for him. 
Tchekalinski received him with a most 
gracious bow. Hermann waited, took a 
card, and staked on it his forty-seven thou- 
sand roubles, together with the like sum 
which he had gained the evening before. 

Tchekalinski began to deal. He turned 
up on the right a knave, and on the left a 

Hermann exhibited a seven. 

There was a general exclamation. 
Tchekalinski was evidently ill at ease, but 
he counted out the ninety-four thousand 
roubles to Hermann, who took them in the 
calmest manner, rose from the table, and 
went away. 

The next evening, at the accustomed 
hour, he again appeared. Everyone was 
expecting him. Generals and high officials 
had left their whist to watch this extra- 
ordinary play. The young officers had 
quitted their sofas, and even the servants of 
the house pressed round the table. 

When Hermann took his seat, the other 
players ceased to stake, so impatient were 
they to see him have it out with the banker, 
who, still smiling, watched the approach 
of his antagonist and prepared to meet him. 
Each of them untied at the same time a 
pack of cards. Tchekalinski shuffled, and 
Hermann cut. Then the latter took up a 
card and covered it with a heap of bank- 
notes. It was like the preliminaries of a duel. 
A deep silence reigned through the room. 

Tchekalinski took up the cards with 
trembling hands and dealt. On one side he 
put down a queen and on the other side 
an ace. 

44 Ace wins," said Hermann. 

a I I I '.' I 1 1 





"No. Queen loses," said Tdiekalin^ki. 

Hermann looked, Instead of ace, he 
saw a queen of spades before him* He 
could not trust his eyes ! And now as he 
gazed, in fascination, on the fatal card, 
he fancied that he saw the queen of spades 
open and then close her eye, while at the 
same time she gave a mocking smile. He 
felt a thrill %i nameless horror. The 

queen of spades resembled the dead Coun- 

tess ! 

the Oboukhoff 
a hopeless 

Hermann is now at 
Asylum, room No. 17 
madman! He answers no questions which 
wc put to hi in. Only he mumbles to himself 
without cessation, u Three, seven, ace ; 
three, seven, queen I p 

by Google 

Original from 

The Two Gerties, 

A Story for Children ; from the French of Voltaire, 

kimjxy am; twaz. 

"VERY one in the province of 
Candahar knows the adven- 
tures of young Rust em. He 
was the only son of a Mirza 
of that country— or, as we 
might say, a lord. His father, 
the Mirza, had a good estate. Rustem was 
to be married to the daughter of a Mirza 
of his own rank, as both families ardently 
desired. He was intended to be the com- 
fort of his parents, to make his wife happy, 
and to be happy with her. 

But, unfortunately, he had seen the 

Princess of Cashmere at 
the great fair at Cabul, 
which is the most impor- 
tant fair in the whole 
world. And this was the 
reason why the old Prince 
of Cashmere had brought 
his daughter to the fair. 
He had lost the two most 
precious objects in his 
treasury : one w T as a dia- 
mond as big as my thumb, 
on which, by an art then 
known to the Indians, 
but now forgotten, a por- 
trait of his daughter was 
engraved ; the other was 
a javelin, which of its 
own accord would strike 
whatever mark the owner wished* 

A fakir in his Highness train had stolen 
these treasures, and carried them to the 
Princess. 41 Take the greatest care of these 
two things,' 1 said he; ''your fate depends 
upon them*" Then he went away, and was 
seen no more* 

The Prince of Cashmere, in great despair, 
determined to travel to the fair at Cabul, 
to see whether among all the merchants 
who collected there from the four quarters 
of the earth, there might not be one who 
had his diamond or his weapon. He took 




his daughter with him wherever he went, 
and she carried the diamond safe in her 
girdle ; but as for the javelin, which she 
could not conveniently hide, she left it in 
Cashmere, safely locked up in a large 
Chinese chest. 

At Cabul she and Rust em saw each 
other, and they fell in love with all the 
ardour of their nation. As a love-token the 
Princess gave him the diamond ; and, at 
parting, Rustem promised to go to see her 
secretly in Cashmere. 

The young Mirza had two favourite 
attendants who served him 
as secretaries, stewards, 
and body-servants. One 
was named Topaz ; he 
was handsome and well- 
made, as fair as a Cir- 
cassian beauty, as gentle 
and obliging as 
Armenian, and as 
wise as a Parsee. 
The other was 
called Ebony* a 
good-looking ne- 
gro, more active 
and more indus- 
trious than Topaz, 
and who never 
made objections. 
To them he spoke 
about his journey. 
Topaz tried to dis- 

he leave two families in despair, and cut 
his parents to the heart ? He shook 
Rustem's purpose ; but Ebony once more 
confirmed it, and removed his scruples. 

The young man had not money enough 
for so long a journey. Wise Topaz would 
have refused to get it for him. Ebony 
provided it. He quietly stole his master's 
diamond, and had a false one made exactly 
like it, which he put in its place, pledging 
the real one to an Armenian for many 
thousands of rupees. 

As soon as Rustem had the rupees he 


suade him, with the cautious zeal of a 
servant who is anxious not to offend, and 
reminded him of ail the risks. How could 

by Google 

was ready to start. An elephant 
was loaded with his baggage, and 
they set out on horseback. 

11 I took the liberty," said Topaz 
to his master, " of remonstrating against 
your enterprise ; but after speaking it was 
my duty to obey. I am your; slave. I love 
you, and will follow you to the end of the 
world. But Ictus consult the oracle which 
is on our way, 1 ' 

Rustem agreed, The answer of the oracle 
was this : " If you turn to the east you will 

Original from 



turn to the west/* Rustem could not under- 
stand this. Topaz maintained that it boded 
no good ; Ebony, always accommodating, 
persuaded him that it was very favourable, 

There was yet another oracle in Cabul, 
which they consulted also. The Cabul oracle 
replied as follows : Lk If you possess you will 
not possess ; if you get the best of it, you will 
get the worst ; if you are Rustem you will 
not be Rustem.' ' This saying seemed still 
more incomprehensible than the other. 

u Beware, said Topaz, 

41 Fear nothing," said Ebony* And he, 
as may be supposed, seemed to his master 
to be always in the 
right, since ne encour- 
aged his passion and 
his hopes. 

On leaving Cabul 
they marched through 
a great forest. Here 
they sat down on the 
grass to cat, while the 
horses were turned 
loose to feed. They 
were about to unload 
the elephant, which 
carried the dinner and 
the service, when it 
was discovered I ! .at 
Topaz and Ebony were 
no longer with the 
party. They called 
th jm loudly ; the forest 
echoed with the names 
of Topaz and Ebony ; 
the men sought them 
in every direction and 
filled the woods with 
their shouts, but they 
came back having seen 
no one and heard no 
answer u We saw no- 
thing,' 1 they said to 
Rustem, u but a vulture fighting with an 
eagle and plucking out all its feathers." 

The history of this struggle excited 
Rustenrs curiosity ; he went to the spot on 
foot. He saw no vulture or eagle, but he 
found that his elephant, still loaded with 
baggage, had been attacked by a huge 
rhinoceros. One was fighting with his horn, 
the other with his trunk. On seeing 
Rustem the rhinoceros retreated, and the 
elephant was led back, But now the horses 
were gone. ib Strange things happen to 
travellers in the forest ! " exclaimed Rus- 
tem. The servants were dismayed, and 
their master was in despair at having lost 

his horses, his favourite negro, and the sage 
Topaz, for whom he had always had a 
regard, though he did not always agree with 
hi< opinion. 

He was comforting himself with the hope 
of soon finding himself at the feet of the 
beautiful Princess of Cashmere, when he 
met a fine striped ass, which a vigorous 
peasant was beating violently with a stiek. 
There is nothing rarer, swifter, or more 
beautiful than an ass of this kind. This one 
retorted on the rustic for his thrashing by 
kicks which might have uprooted an oak. 
The young Mirza very naturally took the 


by VjC 


ass's part, for it was a beautiful beast. The 
peasant ran off, crying out to the ass : 4l I 
will pay you out yet ! " The ass thanked 
its liberator after its fashion, went up to 
him, fawned on him, and received his 

Having dined, Rustem mounted him, and 
took the road to Cashmere with his servants, 
some on foot and some riding the elephant. 

Hardly had he mounted his ass, when the 
animal turned towards Cabul, instead of 

Kroceeding on the way to Cashmere, In vain 
is rider tugged at the bridle, jerked at the 
bit, squeezed his ribs with his knees, drove 
the spurs into his flanks, gave him his head, 
Original from 



pulled him up, whipped him right and left. 
The obstinate beast still made direct for 

Rustem was growing desperate, when he 
met a camel-driver, who said to him — 

44 You have a very stubborn ass there, 
master, which insists on carrying you where 
you do not want to go. If you will let me 
have him, I will give you four of my camels, 
which you may choose for yourself. 

Rustem thanked Providence for having 
sent so good a bargain in his way. " Topaz 
was all wrong," thought he, " to say that 
my journey would be unlucky." He 
mounted the finest of the camels, and the 
others followed. He soon rejoined his 
little caravan, and went on his way towards 

He had not marched more than four 
miles, when he was stopped by a torrent, 
wide, deep, and impetuous, tumbling over 
rocks all white with foam. On each shore 
rose precipitous cliffs which bewildered the 
eye and chilled tfie heart of man. There 
was no way of getting across, of turning to 
the right hand or to the left. 

11 I am beginning to fear," said Rustem, 
" that Topaz may have been right to re- 
prehend me for this journey, and I very 
wrong to undertake it. If he were but here 
he might give me some good advice, and if 
I had Ebony, he at any rate would comfort 
me, and suggest Some expedient. As it is 
I have no one left to help me." 

His dismay was increased by that of his 
followers. The night was very dark, and 
they spent it in lamentations. At last 
fatigue and dejection brought sleep to the 
love-sick traveller. He awoke, however, at 
daybreak, and saw a fine marble bridge 
built across the torrent from shore to shore. 
• Then what exclamations, what cries of 
astonishment and delight. " Is it possible ? 
Is it a dream ? What a marvel ! It is 
magic ! Dare we cross it ? " All the Mirza's 
train fell on their knees, got up again, went 
to the bridge, kissed the ground, looked up 
to heaven, lifted their hands ; then tremu- 
lously set foot on it, went over, and came 
back in perfect ecstasy. And Rustem said, 
u Heaven is on my side this time. Topaz 
did not know what he was saying. The 
oracles were in my favour. Ebony was 
right ; but why is he not here ? " 

Hardly had the caravan crossed in safety, 
when the bridge fell into the torrent with 
an appalling crash. 

" So much the better ! " cried Rustem. 
" God be praised ! He does not intend 

Digitized by OOQglC 

me to return to my own country, where 
I should be only a private gentleman. 
He means me to marry the Princess. I 
shall be Prince of Cashmere. In that 
way, when I possess my Princess, I shall 
not possess my humble rank in Canda- 
har ; I shall be Rustem, and I shall not, 
since I shall be a great prince. There 
is a great deal of the oracle interpreted in 
my favour. The rest will be explained in 
the same way. I am too happy ! But 
why is not Ebony at my side ? I regret 
him a thousand times more than Topaz." 

He rode a few miles further in great glee ; 
but as evening fell, a chain of mountains, 
steeper than a rampart, and higher than the 
Tower of Babel would have been when 
finished, entirely closed the road against the 
travellers, who were filled with fears. 

Everyone exclaimed : " It is the will of 
God that we should perish here ! He has 
broken down the bridge that we may have 
no hope of returning ; He has raised up 
this mountain to hinder our going forward. 
Oh, Rustem ! Oh, hapless Mirza ! We 
shall never see Cashmere, we shall never 
return to the land of Candahar ! " 

In Rustem's soul the keenest anguish 
and most complete dejection succeeded the 
immoderate joy and hopes which had in- 
toxicated him. He was now very far from 
interpreting the oracles to his advantage : 
" Oh merciful Heaven ! " he cried. " Have 
I really lost my friend Topaz ? " 

As he spoke the words, heaving deep 
sighs and shedding bitter tears in the 
sight of his despairing followers, behold, 
the base of the mountain opened, and a long 
vaulted gallery lighted by a hundred thou- 
sand torches was revealed to his dazzled 
eyes ! 

Rustem broke into exclamations of joy ; 
his people fell on their knees or dropped 
down with amazement, crying out that it was 
a miracle, and that Rustem was destined to 
govern the world. Rustem himself believed 
it, and was uplifted beyond measure. " Ah ! 
Ebony, my dear Ebony, where are you ? " 
he cried. " Why are you not here to see 
all these wonders ? How did I come to 
lose you ? Fair Princess of Cashmere, 
when shall I again behold your charms ? " 

He marched forward with his servants, 
his elephant, and his camels into the tunnel 
under the mountain, and at the end of it 
came out upon a meadow enamelled with 
flowers and watered by brooks. Beyond 
this meadow, avenues of trees stretched 
into the far distance ; at the end of them 




was a river bordered by delightful houses 
in the loveliest gardens- On every side he 
heard concerts of voices and instruments, 
and saw dancing* He hurried across one of 
the bridges over the river, and asked the 
first man he met what was this beautiful 

The man to whom he spoke replied : 
u You are in the province of Cashmere ; 
the inhabitants, as you see, are holding 
great rejoicings. We are doing honour to 
the wedding of our beautiful Princess, who 
is about to marry a certain lord named 
Barbabou to whom her father has plighted 


her. May Heaven 
prolong their hap- 
piness ! " 
On hearing these 

words Rustem fell 
down in a swoon. 
The gentleman of 
Cash mere p suppos- 
ing that he was 
liable to fits, had him carried to his own 
house, w!icre he lay some time unconscious- 
The two cleverest physicians of the district 
were called in ; they felt their patient's 
pulse ; and he having somewhat recovered, 
sobbed and sighed, and rolled his eyes 
exclaiming, "Topaz, Topaz, you were right 
after all ! S 

One of the physicians said to the gentle- 
man of Cashmere, 4 * I perceive by his accent 
that this young man comes from Candahar ; 
the air of this country does not agree with 
him, and he must be sent home again. I 

can see by his eyes that he is mad ; leave 
him in my hands ; I will take him back to 
his own country and cure him/ 1 The other 
physician declared that his only complaint 
was melancholy, and that he ought to be 
taken to the Princess's wedding and com- 
pelled to dance. 

While they were discussing his case the 
sick man recovered his powers ; the two 
physicians were sent away, and Rustem 
remained alone with his host. 

M Sir p 1T said he, 4 * I ask your pardon for 
fainting in your presence ; I know that it 
is not good manners, and I entreat you to 
accept my elephant in acknowledgment 
of all the kindness with which you have 
received me." 
He then related his adventures, taking 

good care not to 
mention the object 
of his journey. 
tk But, in the name 
of Brahma/' said 
he, " tell me who 
is this happy Bar- 
babou who is to 
be married to the 
Princess of Cash- 
mere, and why her 
father has chosen 
him for his son-in- 
law, and why the 
Princess has ac- 
cepted him for her 
husband/ 1 

"My lord," re- 
plied the gentle- 
man of Cashmere, 
11 the Princess is far 
from having ac- 
cepted him. On 
the contrary, she is 
drowned in tears, 
while the province 
rejoices over her 
marriage. She is 
shut up in the Palace Tower, and refuses 
to see any of the festivities prepared in her 

Rust em, on hearing this, felt new life in 
his soul, and the colour which sorrow had 
faded came again into his cheeks. 

"Then pray tell me," he continued, 
u why the Prince of Cashmere persists in 
marrying her to Barbabou against her will/* 
44 The facts are these/ 1 replied his friend. 
(4 Do you know that our august Prince lost 
some "time ago a diamond and a javelin, on 
which his heart vvi> greatly set ? " 




11 1 know it well," said Rustem. 

" Then, I must tell you," said his host, 
"that the Prince, in despair at hearing 
nothing of his two treasures, after searching 
for them all the world over, promised his 
daughter in marriage to anyone who would 
bring him cither of them. Then Barbabou 
arrived and brought the diamond with him ; 
and he is to marry the Princess to-morrow." 

Rustem turned pale. He muttered his 
thanks, took leave of his host, and went off 
on his dromedary to the capital where the 
ceremony was to take place. He reached 
the palace of the sovereign, announced that 
he had matters of importance to com- 
municate to him, and craved an audience. 
He was told that the Prince was engaged 
in preparing for the wedding. " That is 
the very reason," said he, 
"why I wish to speak to 
him. In short, he was so 
urgent that he was admitted. 

"My lord," said he, "may 
Heaven crown your days 
with glory and magnificence ! 
Your son-in-law is a rascal," 

M A rascal ! How dare you 
say so ? Is that the way to 
speak to a Prince of Cash- 
mere of the son-in- 
law he has chosen ? " 

M Yes, a rascal/' 
said Rustem. *'And 
to prove it to your 
Highness, here is 

pared the two diamonds, and, as he knew 
nothing about gtems, he could not tell which 
was the true one, 

"Here are two diamonds," said he, " but 
I have only one daughter. I am in a strange 
dilemma ! " 

Then he sent for Barbabou, and asked 
him whether he had not deceived him. 
Barbabou swore that he had bought the 
diamond of an Armenian. Rustem did not 
say from whom he had got his, but he 
proposed, as a solution, that his Highness 
should allow him and his rival to fight in 
single combat on the spot, 

41 It is not enough that your son-in-law 
should possess a diamond," said he, "he 
ought also to show proof of valour, Do you 
not think it fair that, the one who kills the 


your diamond, which I have brought back 
to you*" 

The Prince, in much amazement, corn- 

other should marry 
the Princess ? " 

" Very good," said 
the Prince ; " it will 
be a fine show for 
all the Court. You 
two shall fight it out 
at once. The con- 
queror shall have 
the armour of the 
conquered man, after 

the custom of Cashmere ; and he shall marry 

the Princess," 
The rivals Jmjireifaf^i^ descended to the 




palace court. On the stairs they saw a mag- 
pie and a raven. The raven cried, " Fight 
it out, fight it out ! " the magpie, u Do not 
fight ! " This made the Prince laugh. The 
rivals scarcely noticed the two birds. 

The combat began. All the courtiers 
stood round them in a circle. The Princess 
still shut herself up in her tower and would 
see nothing of it. She had no suspicion 
that her lover could be in Cashmere, and 
she had such a' horror of Barbabou that she 
would not look on. The fight went off as 
well as possible. Barbabou was left stone 
dead, and the populace were delighted, for 
he was ugly and Rustem very handsome — 
a fact which almost always turns the scale 
of public favour. 

The conqueror put on the dead man's 
coat of mail, his scarf and his helmet, and 
approached the window of his mistress to 
the sound of trumpets, followed by all the 
CouTt. Everyone was shouting : " Fair 
Princess, come and see your handsome 
bridegroom who has killed his hideous 
rival ! " and the ladies repeated the words. 
The Princess unfortunately looked out of 
window, and seeing the armour of the man 
she abhorred she flew in despair to the 
Chinese trunk, and took out the fatal javelin, 
which darted, at her wish, to pierce her dear 
Rustem through a joint in his cuirass. He 
gave a bitter cry, and in that cry the 
Princess thought that she recognised the 
voice of her hapless lover. 

She flew into the courtyard, her hair all 
dishevelled, death in her eyes and in her 
heart, Rustem was lying in her father's 
arms. She saw him ! What a moment, 
what a sight ! Who can express the 
anguish, the tenderness, the horror of that 
meeting ? She threw herself upon him and 
embraced him. 

"These," she cried, "are the first and 
last kisses of your lover and destroyer. " 
Then snatching the dart from his wound, 
she plunged it into her own heart, and died 
on the breast of the lover she adored. 

'Her father, horror-stricken and heart- 
broken, strove in vain to bring her back 
to life ; she was no more. He broke the 
fatal weapon into fragments, and flung away 
the ill-starred diamonds ; and while prepara- 
tions were proceeding for his daughter's 
funeral instead of her wedding, he had the 
bleeding but still living Rustem carried into 
his palace. 

Rustem was laid upon a couch. The first 
thing he saw, one on each side of his death- 
bed, were Topaz and Ebony. Surprise gave 

him strength. " Cruel that you were," 
said he ; " why did you desert me ? The 
Princess might still perhaps be living if 
you had been at hand ! " 

" I have never left you for a moment," 
said Topaz. 

" I have been always at your side," said 

" What do you mean ? Why do you 
insult me in my last moments ? " replied 
Rustem, in a weak voice. 

u Believe me, it is true," said Topaz. 
14 You know I never approved of this ill- 
advised journey, for I foresaw its disastrous 
end. I was the eagle which struggled with 
the vulture, and which the vulture plucked ; 
I was the elephant which made off with 
your baggage to compel you to return 
home ; I was the striped ass which would 
fain have carried you back to your father ; 
it was I who led your horses astray, who 
produced the torrent which you could not 
cross, who raised the mountain which 
checked your unlucky advance ; I was the 
physician who advised your return to your 
native air, and the magpie which urged you 
not to fight." 

44 1," said Ebony, " was the vulture who 
plucked the eagle, the rhinoceros which 
thrust its horn into the elephant, the peasant 
who beat the ass, the merchant who gave 
you the camels to hasten you to your ruin ; 
I raised the bridge you crossed ; I bored the 
mountains for you to pass ; I was the phy- 
sician who advised you to proceed, and the 
raven which encouraged you to fight." 

44 Alas! And remember the oracles," 
added Topaz ; " * If you turn to the east 
you will turn to the west.' " 

44 Yes, here they bury the dead with their 
faces turned westward," said Ebony. u The 
oracle was plain ; why did not you under- 
stand it ? You possessed and you possessed 
not ; for you had the diamond, but it was 
a false one, and you did not know it ; you 
got the best of it in battle, but you also got 
the worst, for you must die ; you are Rus- 
tem, but you will soon cease to be so. The 
oracle is fulfilled." 

Even as he spoke two white wings ap- 
peared on the shoulders of Topaz, and two 
black wings on those of Ebony. 

44 What is this that I see ? " cried Rustem. 
And Topaz and Ebony replied : " We are 
your two genies." " I," added Topaz, " am 
your good genie." 

" And you, Ebony, with your black wings, 
are apparently my £vil genie. " 

4i As you sav r , M replied Ebony. 




Then suddenly everything vanished, 
Rusteni found himself in his father's house 
which he had not quitted, and in his bed 
where he had been sleeping just an hour 

He awoke with a start, bathed in sweat 
and greatly scared* He shouted, he called, 
he rang; His servant Topaz hurried up in 
his night-cap, yawning. 


"Am I dead or alive ? " cried Rusterm 
" Will the beautiful Princess of Cashmere 
recover ? ,? 

" Is your Highness dreaming ? ? ' said 
TopaZj calmly* 

11 And what," cried Rustem, " has become 
of that cruel Ebony, with his two black 
wings ? Is it his fault that I am dying so 
dreadful a death ? n 

11 Sir, I left him upstairs snoring. Shall 
I call him down ? " T 

11 The villain ! He has been tormenting 
me these six months. It was he who took 
me to that fatal fair at Cabul; 
it was he who stole the dia- 
mond the Princess gave me ; 
he is the sole cause of my 
journey, of the death of my 
Princess and of the javelin- 
wound of which I am dying 
in the prime of youth M 

" Make yourself easy/ 1 said 
Topaz. u You have never 
been to Cabul. There is no 
Princess of Cashmere ; the 
Prince has but two sons, and 
they arc now at school. You 
never had any diamond. The 
Princess cannot be dead since 
she never was born ; and you 
are perfectly sound and well." 
u What ! Is it not true 
that you became in turn an 
eagle, an elephant, an ass, a 
doctor, and a magpie, to pro* 
tect me from ill ? ,J 

u It is all a dream, sir. Our 
ideas are no more under our 
control when sleeping than 
when awake. The Almighty 
sent that string of ideas 
through your head, as it 
would seem, to give you 
some lesson which you may 
lay to heart. n 

11 You are making game of 

me/' said Rustem. 4 * How 

long have I been sleeping ? n 

* j Sir, you have only slept 

one hour," • 

" Well, I cannot understand it," said 


But perhaps he took the lesson to heart . 
and learnt to doubt whether all he wished 
for was right and good for him. 

by Google 

Original from 

/^^- n f , Original from 



by Google 

Original from 

The Pistol Shot, 

From the Russian of Alexander Pushkin. 

E were stationed at the little 
village of Z. The life of an 
officer in the army is well 
known. Drill and the riding 
*v$ school in the morning ; dinner 
"" with the colonel or at the 
Jewish restaurant ; and in the evening 
punch and cards. 

At Z. nobody kept open house, and 
there was no girl that anyone could think 
of marrying. We used to meet at each 
other's rooms, where we never saw anything 
but one another's uniforms. There was 
only one man among us who did not belong 
to the regiment. He was about thirty-five, 
and, of course, we looked upon him as an 
old fellow, 

the advantage of 

He had 
experience, and his 
habitual gloom, 
stern features, and 
his sharp tongue 
ga\ r e him great 
influence over his 
juniors He was 
surrounded by a 
certain mystery, 
His looks were 
Russian, but his 
name was foreign. 
He had served in 
the Hussars, and 
with credit. No 
one knew what 
had induced him 
to retire and settle 
in this out of the 
way little village, 
where he lived in 
mingled poverty 
extravagance. He 
ways went on foot, and 
wore a shabby black 
coat, But he was always ready 
to receive any of our officers ; 
and, though his dinners, cooked 
by a retired soldier, never consisted of more 
than two or three dishes, champagne flowed 
at them tike water. His income or how he 
got it no one knew \ and no one ventured 
to ask. He had a few books on military 
subjects and a few novels, which he 
willingly lent and never asked to have 
returned. But, on the other hand, he never 
returned the books he himself borrowed. 


His principal recreation was pistol-shoot- 
ing. The walls of his room were riddled 
with bullets — a perfect honeycomb, A rich 
collection of pistols was the only thing 
luxurious in Ms modestly furnished villa, 
His skill as a shot was quite prodigious. If 
he had undertaken to shoot a pear off some 
one's cap, not a man in our regiment would 
have hesitated to act as target. Our con- 
versation often turned on duelling. Silvio — 
so I will call him— never joined in it. When 
asked if he had ever fought, he answered 
curtly, u Yes,' 1 But he gave no particulars, 
and it was evident that he disliked such 
questions. We concluded that the memory 
of some unhappy victim of his terrible 
skill preyed heavily upon his conscience. 
None of us could ever have suspected him 
of cowardice. There are men whose look 
alone is enough to repel such a suspicion. 


An unexpected incident fairly astonished 
us. One afternoon about ten officers were 
dining with Silvio. They drank as usual ; 
that is to say, a great deal. After dinner 
we asked our host to make a pool. For a 




long time he refused on the ground that he 
seldom played. At last he ordered cards to 
be brought in. With half a hundred gold 
pieces on the table we sat round him, and 
the game began. It was Silvio's habit not 
to speak when playing. He never disputed 
or explained. If an adversary made a mis- 
take Silvio without a word chalked it 
down against him. Knowing his way, we 
always let him have it. 

But among us on this occasion was an 
officer who had but lately joined. While 
playing he absent-mindedly scored a point 
too much. Silvio took the chalk and cor- 
rected the score in his own fashion. The 
officer, supposing him to have made a mis- 
take, began to explain. Silvio went on 
dealing in silence. The officer, losing 
patience, took the brush and rubbed out 
what he thought was wrong. Silvio took 
the chalk and reconnected it. The officer, 
heated with wine and play, and irritated by 
the laughter of the company, thought him- 
self aggrieved, and, in a fit of passion, seized 
a brass candlestick and threw it at Silvio, 
who only just managed to avoid the missile. 
Great was our confusion. Silvio got up, 
white with rage, and said, with sparkling 
eyes — 

" Sir ! have the goodness to withdraw, 
and you may thank God that this has hap- 
pened in my own house." 

We could have no doubt as to the conse- 
quences, and we already looked upon our 
new comrade as a dead man. He withdrew 
saying that he was ready to give satisfaction 
for his offence in any way desired. 

The game went on for a few minutes. 
But feeling that our host was upset we 
gradually left off playing and dispersed, 
each to his own quarters. At the riding 
school next day, we were already asking 
one another whether the young lieutenant 
was still alive, when he appeared among us. 
We asked him the same question, and were 
told that he had not yet heard from Silvio. 
We were astonished. We went to Silvio's 
and found him in the court-yard popping 
bullet after bullet into an ace which he had 
gummed to the gate. He received us as 
usual, but made no allusion to what had 
happened on the previous evening. 

Three days passed, and the lieutenant was 
still alive. " Can it be possible/' we asked 
one another in astonishment, u that Silvio 
will not fight ? " 

Silvio did not fight. He accepted a flimsy 
apology, and became reconciled to the man 
who had insulted him. This lowered him 

lized by V^OOglG 

greatly in the opinion of the young men, 
who, placing bravery above all the other 
human virtues and regarding it as an excuse 
for every imaginable vice, were ready to 
overlook anything sooner than a lack of 
courage. However, little by little all was 
forgotten, and Silvio regained his former 
influence. I alone could not renew my friend- 
ship with him. Being naturally romantic I 
had surpassed the rest in my attachment to 
the man whose life was an enigma, and who 
seemed to me a hero of some mysterious 
story. He liked me ; and with me alone 
did he drop his sarcastic tone and converse 
simply and most agreeably on many sub- 
jects. But after this unlucky evening the 
thought that his honour was tarnished, and 
that it remained so by his own choice, 
never left me ; and this prevented any 
renewal of our former intimacy. I was 
ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too 
sharp and experienced not to notice this 
and guess the reason. It seemed to vex 
him, for I observed that once or twice he 
hinted at an explanation. But I wanted 
none ; and Silvio gave me up. Thence- 
forth I only met him in the presence of 
other friends, and our confidential talks 
were at an end. 

The busy occupants of the capital have 
no idea of the emotions so frequently ex- 
perienced by residents in the country and 
in country towns ; as, for instance, in await- 
ing the arrival of the post. On Tuesdays 
and Fridays the bureau of the regimental 
staff was crammed with officers. Some 
were expecting money, others letters or 
newspapers. The letters were mostly 
opened on the spot, and the news freely in- 
terchanged, the office meanwhile presenting 
a most lively appearance. 

Silvio's letters used to be addressed jto 
our regiment, and he usually called for them 
himself. On one occasion, a letter having 
been handed to him, I saw him break the 
seal and, with a look of great impatience, 
read the contents. His eyes sparkled. The 
other officers, each engaged with his own 
letters, did not notice anything. 

u Gentlemen," said Silvio, u circumstances 
demand my immediate departure. I leave 
to-night, and I hope you will not refuse to 
dine with me for the last time. I shall ex- 
pect you, too," he added, turning towards 
me, " without fail." Vftth these words he 
hurriedly left, and we agreed to meet at 

I went to Silvio's at the appointed time, 
and found nearly the whole regiment with 




him. His things were already packed. No- 
thing remained but the bare shot-marked 
walls. We sat down to table- The host 
was in excellent spirits, and his liveliness 
communicated itself to the rest of the 
company. Corks popped every moment, 
Bottles fizzed, and tumblers foamed inces- 
santly, and we, with much warmth, wished 
our departing friend a pleasant journey and 
every happiness. The evening was far 
ad\ r anced when we rose from table, During 
the search for hats, Silvio wished everybody 
good-bye. Then, taking me by the hand, 
as I was on the 
point r>f leaving, 
he said in a low 

11 1 want to 
speak to you." 

I stopped be- 

The guests had 
gone and we were 
left alone. 

Sitting down 
opposite one 
another, w e 
lighted our pipes. 
Silvio was much 
agitated; no 
traces of his for- 
mer gaiety re- 
mained. Deadly 
pale, with spark- 
ling eyes, and a 
thick smoke issu- 
ing from his 
11 10 11th, he looked 
like a demon. 
Several minutes 
passed before he 
broke silence. 

u Perhaps we 
shall never meet 



he said. 

%i Before saying good-bye I want to have a 
few words with you. You may have re- 
marked that I care little for the opinions of 
others. But I like you, and should be sorry 
to leave you under a wrong impression." 

He paused, and began refilling his pipe, 
I looked down and was silent. 

"You thought it odd," he continued, 
i{ that I did not require satisfaction from 
that drunken maniac. You will grant, 
however, that being entitled to the choice 
of weapons I had his life more or less in 
my hands. I might attribute my tolerance 
to generosity, but I will not deceive 

you. If I could have chastised him 
without the least risk to myself, without 
the slightest danger to my own life, then I 
would on no account have forgiven him." 

I looked at Silvio with surprise. Such a 
confession completely upset me. Silvio 
continued : — 

u Precisely so ; I had no right to endan- 
ger my life. Six years ago 1 received a slap 
in the face, and my enemy still lives," 
My curiosity was greatly excited* 
M Did you not fight him ? " I inquired. 
" Circumstances probablv separated you ? " 

"I did fight 
him," replied Sil- 
vio," and here is 
a memento of our 

He rose and 
took from a card- 
board box a red 
cap with a gold 
tassel and gold 

11 My disposi- 
tion is well 
known to you. I 
have been accus- 
tomed to be first 
in everything. 
Fr^m my youth 
this has been my 
passion * In my 
time dissipation 
was the fashion, 
and I was the 
most dissipated 
man in the army. 
We used to boast 
of our drunken- 
ness. I beat at 
drinking the cele- 
brated BourtsofT, 
of whom Da vi doff 
has sung in his 
our regiment were of 
I took part in all of 
them, either as second or as principal. My 
comrades adored me, while the commanders 
of the regiment, who were constantly being 
changed, looked upon me as an incurable 

u I was calmly, or rather boisterously, en* 
joying my reputation, when a certain young 
man joined our regiment. He was rich, and 
came of a distinguished family — I will not 
name him. Never in my life did I meet 
with so brilliant, so fortunate a fellow! — 
young, clev'e^'RtfirasBiftB] with the wildest 

poems. Duels in 
daily occurrence. 




spirits, the most reckless bravery* bearing a 
celebrated name, possessing funds of which 
he did not know the amount, bat which 
were inexhaustible. You may imagine the 
effect he w;i> sure to produce among us. 
My leadership was shaken. Dazzled by my 
reputation, he began by seeking my friend- 
ship. But I received him coldly; at which, 
without the least sign of regret, he kept 
aloof from me* 

U I took a dislike to him. His success in 
the regiment and in the society of women 
brought me to despair, I tried to pick a 
quarrel with him. To my epigrams he re- 
plied with epigrams which always seemed 
to me more pointed and more piercing 
than my own, and which were certainly 
much livelier ; for while he joked, I was 

11 Finally, at a ball at the house of a 
Polish landed proprietor, seeing him re- 
ceive marked attention from all the ladies, 
and especially from the lady of the house, 
who had formerly been on very friendly 
terms with me, I whispered 
some low insult in his ear. 
He flew into a passion, and 
gave me a slap on the cheek. 
We clutched our swords ; the 
ladies fainted ; we were sepa- 
rated ; and the same night 
we drove out to fight. 

u It was nearly daybreak > 
I was standing at the ap- 
pointed spot with my three 
seconds. How impatiently I 
awaited my opponent ! The 
spring sun had risen, and it 
was growing hot. At last I 
saw him in the distance- He 
was on foot, accompanied by 
only one second. We ad- 
vanced to meet him. He 
approached, holding in his 
hand his regimental cap t 
filled full of black cherries, 

11 The seconds measured 
twelve paces. It was for me 
to fire first. But my excite- 
ment was so great that I 
could not depend upon the 
certainty of my hand ; and, 
in order to give myself time 
to get calm, I ceded the first 
shot to my adversary. He 
would not accept it, and we 
decided to cast lots. 

u The number fell to him ; 
constant favourite of fortune 

that he was ! He aimed, and put a bullet 
through my cap. 

" It was now my turn. His life at last was 
in my hands ; I looked at him eager ly, trying 
to detect if only some faint shadow of un- 
easiness. But he stood beneath my pistol, 
picking out ripe cherries from his cap and 
spitting out the stones, some of which fell 
near me, His indifference enraged me. 
1 What is the use,' thought I, l of depriv- 
ing htm of life, when he sets no value upon 
it/ As this savage thought flitted through 
my brain I lowered the pistol. 

* l - You don't seem to be ready for death, 1 
I said ; *you are eating your breakfast, and 
I don't want to interfere with you.' 

btt You don't interfere with me in the 
least, 1 he replied. ( Be good enough to 
fire. Or don't fire if you prefer it ; the 
shot remains with you, and I shall be at 
your service at any moment/ 

u I turned to the seconds, informing them 
that I had no intention of firing that day \ 
and with this the duel ended. I resigned 




my commission and retired to this little 
place, Since then not a single day has 
passed that I have not thought of my re- 
venge ; and now the hour has arrived/' 

Silvio took from his pocket the letter he 
had received that morning, and handed it 
to rne to read* Someone (it seemed to be 
his business agent) wrote to him from 
Moscow, that a certain individual was soon 
to be married to a young and beautiful girl. 

u You guess,** said Silvio, ki who the cer- 
tain individual is, I am starting for Mos- 
cow. We shall see whether he will be as 

careless existence. Most difficult of all I 
found it to pass in solitude the spring and 
winter evenings. Until the dinner hour I 
somehow occupied the time, talking to the 
starosta, driving round to see how the 
work went on, or visiting the new buildings. 
But as soon as evening began to draw in, I 
was at a loss what to do with myself. My 
books in various bookcases, cupboards, and 
storerooms I knew by heart. The house- 
keeper, Kurilovna, related to me all the 
stories she could remember, The songs of 
the peasant women made me melancholy. 


indifferent now as he was sum; time ago, 
when in presence of death he ate cherries V 

With these words Silvio rose, threw his 
cap upon the floor, and began pacing up and 
down the room like a tiger in his cage. I 
remained silent. Strange contending feel- 
ings agitated me. 

The servant entered and announced that 
the horses were ready. Silvio grasped my 
hand tightly. He got into the telega, in 
which lay two trunks — one containing his 
pistols, the other some personal effects. 
We wished good-bye a second time, and the 
horses galloped off. 


Many years passed, and family circum- 
stances obliged me to settle in the poor 
little village of N. Engaged in farming, 
I sighed in secret for my former merry, 

I tried cherry brandy, but that gave rne the 
headache. I must confess, however, that 1 
had some fear of becoming a drunkard from 
ennui, the saddest kind of drunkenness 
imaginable, of which I had seen many ex* 
amples in our district. 

I had no near neighbours with the ex- 
ception of two or three melancholy ones, 
whose conversation counted mostly ot 
hiccups and sighs. Solitude was preferable 
to that. Finally I decided to go to bed as 
early as possible, and to dine as late as 
possible, thus shortening the evening and 
lengthening the day ; and I found this 
plan a good one. 

Four versts from my place was a large 
estate belonging to Count B. ; but the 




steward alone lived there. The Countess 
had visited her domain once only, just after 
her marriage ; and she then only lived 
there about a month. However, in the 
second spring of my retirement, there was 
a report that the Countess, with her 
husband, would come to spend the summer 
on her estate ; and they arrived at the 
beginning of June. 

The advent of a rich neighbour is an im- 
portant event for residents in the country. 
The landowners and the people of their 
household talk of it for a couple of months 
beforehand, and for three years afterwards. 
As far as I was concerned, I must confess, 
the expected arrival of a young and 
beautiful neighbour affected me strongly. 
I burned with impatience to see her ; and 
the first Sunday after her arrival I started 
for the village, in order to present myself 
to the Count and Countess as their near 
neighbour and humble servant. 

The footman showed me into the Count's 
study, while he went to inform him of my 
arrival. The spacious room was furnished 
in a most luxurious manner. Against the 
walls stood enclosed bookshelves well fur- 
nished with books, and surmounted by 
bronze busts. Over the marble mantel- 
piece was a large mirror. The floor was 
covered with green cloth, over which were 
spread rugs and carpets. 

Having got unaccustomed to luxury in 
my own poor little corner, and not having 
beheld the wealth of other people for a 
long while, I was awed ; and I awaited the 
Count with a sort of fear, just as a petitioner 
from the provinces awaits in an ante-room 
the arrival of the minister. The doors 
opened, and a man, about thirty-two, and 
very handsome, entered the apartment. 
The Count approached me with a frank and 
friendly look. I tried to be self-possessed, 
and began to introduce myself, but he fore- 
stalled me. 

We sat down. His easy and agreeable 
conversation soon ' dissipated my nervous 
timidity. I was already passing into my 
usual manner, when suddenly the Countess 
entered, and I became more confused than 
ever. She was, indeed, beautiful. The Count 
presented me. I was anxious to appear 
at ease, but the more I tried to assume an 
air of unrestraint, the more awkward I felt 
myself becoming. They, in order to give 
me time to recover myself and get accus- 
tomed to my new acquaintances, conversed 
with one another, treating me in good 
neighbourly fashion without ceremony. 

by V_ 



Meanwhile, I walked about the room, 
examining the books and pictures. In 
pictures I am no co?inaisseur ; but one of 
the Count's attracted my particular notice. 
It represented a view in Switzerland. I was 
not, however, struck by the painting, but 
by the fact that it was shot through by two 
bullets, one planted just on the top of the 

" A good shot," I remarked, turning to 
the Count. 

" Yes," he replied, " a very remarkable 

" Do you shoot well ? " he added. 

" Tolerably," I answered, rejoicing that 
the conversation had turned at last on a 
subject which interested me. "At a dis- 
tance of thirty paces I do not miss a card ; 
I mean, of course, with a pistol that I am 
accustomed to." 

" Really ? " said the Countess, with a 
look of great interest. " And you, my 
dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces ? " 

" Some day," replied the Count, " we 
will try. In my own time I did not shoot 
badly. But it is four years now since I 
held a pistol in my hand." 

" Oh," I replied, " in that case, I bet, 
Count, that you will not hit a card even at 
twenty paces. The pistol demands daily 
practice. I know that from experience. In 
our regiment I was reckoned one of the 
best shots. Once I happened not to take a 
pistol in hand for a whole month : I had 
sent my own to the gunsmith's. Well, 
what do you think, Count ? The first time 
I began again to shoot I four times running 
missed a bottle at twenty paces. The cap- 
tain of our company, who was a wit, hap- 
pened to be present, and he said to me : 
4 Your hand, my friend, refuses to raise 
itself against the bottle ! ' No, Count, you 
must not neglect to practise, or you will 
soon lose all skill. The best shot I ever 
knew used to shoot every day, and at least 
three times every day before dinner. This 
was as much his habit as the preliminary 
glass of vodka." 

The Count and Countess seemed pleased 
that I had begun to talk. 

" And what sort of a shot was he ? " 
asked the Count. 

" This sort, Count : if he saw a fly 

settle on the wall You smile, Countess, 

but I assure you it is a fact. When he saw 
the fly, he would call out, ' Kouska, my 
pistol ! ' Kouska brought him the loaded 
pistol. A crack, and the fly was crushed 
into the wall ! " 

Original from 




44 That is astonishing ! " said the Count, 
" And what was his name ? " 

" Silvio was his name," 

" Silvio ! " exclaimed the Count, starting 
from his seat. 4 * You knew Silvio ? " 

M How could I fail to know him ? — we 
were comrades ; he was received at our 
mess like a brother-officer. It is now about 
five years since I last had -tidings of him. 
Then you, Count, also knew him ? " 

" I knew him very well. Did he never 
tell you of one very extraordinary incident 
in his life ? " 

u Do you mean the slap in the face, 
Count, that he received from a blackguard 
at a ball ? " 

u He did not tell you the name of this 
blackguard ? " 

*' No, Count, he did not. Forgive me/' 
I added j guessing the truth, " forgive me 

' did not — could it really have been 


P » 

It , was myself," replied the Count, 
greatly agitated; "and the shots in the 

friend. He shall also know how Silvio 
revenged himself/' The Count pushed a 
chair towards me, and with the liveliest 
interest I listened to the following story : — 

" Five years ago," began the Count, ki I 
got married. The honeymoon I spent here, 
in this village. To this house I am indebted 
for the happiest moments of my life, and 
for one of its saddest remembrances, 

14 One afternoon we went out riding 
together. My wife's horse became restive. 
She was frightened, gut off the horse, 
handed the reins over to me, and walked 
home, I rode on before her. In the yard 
I saw a travelling carriage, and I was told 
that in my study sat a man who would not 
give his name, but simply said that he 
wanted to see me on business. I entered 
the study, and saw in the darkness a man, 
dusty and unshaven. He stood there, by 
the fireplace. I approached him trying to 
recollect his face. 

14 l You don't remember me, Count ? * he 
said, in a tremulous voice, 


picture are a memento of our last meet- 

41 Oh, my dear, 1 ' said the Countess, ** for 
God's sake, do not relate it ! It frightens 
me to think erf it, M 

14 No," replied the Count ; " I must tell 
him all. He knows how I insulted his 

" ( Silvio ! T I cried, and I confess, I felt 
that my hair was standing on end, 

b ' h Exactly so/ he added, * You owe me 
a shot ; I hawiabfaemto claim it, Are 





you readv ? A pistol protruded from his 
side pocket, 

41 I measured twelve paces, and stood 
there in that corner, begging him to fire 
quickly* before my wife came in. 

44 He hesitated, arid asked for a light 
Candles were brought in. I locked the 
doors, gave orders that no one should enter, 
and again called upon him to fire. He 
took out his pistol and aimed. 

* l I counted the seconds. . . t I thought of 
hen . . ♦ A terrible moment passed ! Then 
Silvio lowered his hand, 

"'I only regret/ he said, ( that the 
pistol is not loaded with cherry-stones. 
My bullet is heavy ; and it always seems to 
me that an affair of this kind is not a duel, 
but a murder. I am not accustomed to 
aim at unarmed men. Let us begin again 
from the beginning. Let us cast lots as to 
who shall fire first.' 

" My head went round. I think 1 ob- 
jected, Finally, however, we loaded another 
pistol and rolled up two pieces of paper. 
These he placed inside his cap ; the one 

through which, at our first meeting, I had 
put the bullet, I again drew the lucky 

Count, you have the devil's luck/ he 

said, with a smile which I shall never forget. 

" I don't know what I was about, or how it 

happened that he succeeded in inducing me. 

But I fired and hit that picture. 1 ' 

The Count pointed with his finger to the 
picture with the shot-marks. His face had 
become red with agitation. The 
Countess was whiter than her own 
handkerchief: and I could not 
restrain an exclamation. 

u I fired/' continued the Count, 
"and, thank heaven, missed. 
Then Silvio — at this moment he 
was really terrible — then Silvio 
raised his pistol to take aim at 

" Suddenly the door flew open, 
Masha rushed into the room. She 
threw herself upon my neck with 
a loud shriek* Her presence re- 
stored to me all my courage, 
" * My dear/ I said to her, 
4 don't you see that we are 
only joking ? How fright- 
ened you look ! Go and 
drink a glass of water and 
then come back ; I will in- 
troduce you to an old friend 
and comrade.' 

tk Masha was still in doubt. 

11 *" Tell me, is my husband speaking the 

truth ? ' she asked, turning to the terrible 

Silvio ; * is it true that you are only 

joking ? ■ 

'"He is always joking t Countess/ Silvio 
replied. * He once in a joke gave me a slap 
in the face ; in joke he put a bullet through 
this cap while I was wearing it ; and in 
joke, too t he missed me when he fired just 
now. And now /have a fancy for a joke.' 
With these words he raised his pistol as if 
to shoot me down before her eyes ! 
M Masha threw herself at his feet. 
i4 * Rise, Masha ! For shame ! ' I cried ill 
my passion ; * and you, sir, cease to amuse 
yourself at the expense of an unhappy 
woman. Will you fire or not ? ' 

11 ' I will not/ replied Silvio, ■ I am satis- 
fied. I have witnessed your agitation ; 
your terror. I forced you to fire at me. 
That is enough ; you will remember me. 
I leave you to your conscience. * 

" He was now about to go. But he stopped 
at the dour, looked round at the picture 
which my shut Imd passed through, fired at 




it almost without taking aim, and dis- 

u My wife had sunk down fainting. The 
servants had not ventured to stop Silvio, 
whom they looked upon with terror. He 
passed out to the steps, called his coachman, 
and before I could collect myself drove off/' 

The Count was silent, I had now heard 
the end of the story of which the beginning 
had long before surprised me. The hero of 
it I never saw again. I heard, however, 
that Silvio, during the rising of Alexander 
Ipsilanti, commanded a detachment of in- 
surgents and was killed in action. 

by Google 

Original from 


A Night with the Thames Police. 

1HERE was a time when the 
owners of craft on the Thames 
practically left their back- 
doors open and invited the 
river-thieves to enter, help 
themselves, and leave un- 
molested and content. The barges lay in 

the river holding everything most coveted, 



from precious cargoes of silk to comfort- 
able-looking bales of tobacco, protected only 
from wind, weather, and wicked fingers by 
a layer of tarpaulin — everything ready and 
inviting to those who devoted their peculiar 
talents and irrepressible instincts to the 
water. Goods to the value of a million 
sterling were being neatly appropriated 
every year. The City merchants were at 
their wits 1 end, Some of the more courageous 
and determined of them ventured out them- 
selves at night ; but the thieves — never at 
a loss in conceiving an ingenious and ready 
nn an- of t >caju — slipped, so to speak, out 
of their wouM-bv captors 1 hands by going 




semi-clothed about their 
work, greasing their flesh 
atid garments until they 
were as difficult to catch 
as eels. 

So the merchants held 
solemn conclave, the result 
of which was the formation, 
in 1792, of "The Preven- 
tative Service/ 1 a title which 
clung to the members thereof 
until T^Uq, when they were 
embodied with the Metro- 
politan Police with the special 
privilege of posing as City 
constables. Now they are a 
body of two hundred and 
two strong, possessing twenty- 
eight police galleys and a trio 
of steam launches, From a 
million pounds' worth of 
property stolen yearly a hundred j^ears 
ago, they have, by a persistent travers- 
ing of a watery beat, reduced it to one 
hundred pounds. Smuggling is in 
reality played out, though foggy nights 
are still fascinating to those so inclined ; 
but now they have to be content with 
a coil or two of old rope, an ingot of 
lead, or a few fish. Still the river-police- 
man's eye and the light of his lantern are 


"■ TH " ' ' s oogle 

always searching for suspicious 
characters and guilty-looking craft. 
In High-*treet, Wapping, famous 
for its river romances, 
and within five hundred 
yards of the Old Stairs, 
the principal station of 
the Thames Police is to 
be found. The tradi- 
tional blue lamp pro- 
jects over a somewhat 
gloomy passage leading 
down to the river-side 
landing stage. To us, 
on the night ap- 
pointed for our 
expedition, it is 
a welcome beacon 
as to the where- 
abouts of law and 
order, for only a 
few minutes pre- 
viously half a 
dozen worthy 
gentlemen stand- 
ing at the top of 
some neighbour- 
ing steps, wearing 
slouched hats and 
anything but a 
comforti 11 g expres- 
sion on their faces 
gruffly demanded, M Do you want a boat ? Tl 
Fortunately we did not. These estimable 
individuals had only just left the dock of 
the police station, where they had been 
charged on suspicion, but eventually dis- 

It is a quarter to six o'clock. At six 
we are to start for our journey up the 
river as far as Waterloo and back again 
to Greenwich ; but there is lime to 
take a hasty survey of the interior of the 
station, where accommodation is provided 
for sixteen single men, with a library, 
reading-room, and billiard-room at their 

"Fine night, sir; rather cold, though/' 
says a hardy-looking fellow dressed in a 
reefer and a brightly glazed old-time man- 
o'- war's hat. He is one of the two oldest 
men in the force, and could tell how he lost 
his wife and all his family, save one lad, 
when the I*n'ncess Alice went down in 
1878. He searched for ten days and ten 
nights, but they were lost to him. Another 
of these river guardians has a never-to-be- 
forgotten reminiscence of that terrible 
disaster, Ofhfitt a Itft^ifljijien of the Thames 





police were on duty for four or five nights 
at a stretch. He was just too late to catch 
the ill-fated vessel ! He was left behind on 
the pier at Sheemess, and with regret 
watched it leave, full of merrymakers. 
What must have been his thoughts when 
he heard the news? 

strapping fellow, buttoning up his coat to 
his neck. 

11 Aye, aye, skipper" we shout, becoming 
for the moment quite nautical. 

Inside the station-house you turn sharply 
to the right, and there is the charge-room. 
Portraits of Sir Charles Warren and other 


You may pick out any of these thick -set 
fellows standing about. They have one 
and all roamed the seas over, Many are 
old colonials, others middle-aged veterans 
trom the navy and merchant service — every 
one of them as hard as a rock, capable of 
rowing for six or eight hours at a stretch 
without resting on the oar, 

" Don't be long inside, sir," shouts a 

3 y Google 

police authorities are picturesquely arranged 

on the walls. In front of the desk, with 

its innumerable little wooden rails, where 

sits the inspector in charge, is the prisoners 1 

dock, from the ground of which rises the 

military measurement in inches against 

which the culpit testifies as to hit height. 

The hands of the clock above are slowly 

going their Jrojjtjds., ,. In a corner, near the 
Original from 




stout steel rails of the clock, lie a couple of 
bargemen's peak caps, They are labelled 
with a half-sheet of notepaper. Their his- 
tory ? They have been picked up in the 
river , but the poor fellows who owned them 
are — missing ! It will be part of our 
duties to assist in the search for them 

Just in a crevice by the window are the 
telegraph instruments. A clicking noise is 
heard, and the inspector hurriedly takes 
down on a slate a strange but suggestive 

"Information received of a prize-fight 
for £2 a side, supposed to take place be- 
tween Highgate and Hampstead." 

What has Highgate or Hampstead to do 
with the neighbourhood of Wapping, or 
how does a prize-fight affect the mem- 
bers of the Thames police, who are any- 
thing but pugilistieally inclined ? In 
our innocence we learn that it is customary 
to telegraph such information to all the 
principal stations throughout London. The 
steady routine of the force is to be 

There are countless coats, capes, and 
caps hanging in a room through which we 

and a drinking cup. Heat is supplied 
through hot- water pipes ; a pillow and rug 
are provided for the women ; and, like " de- 
sirable villa residences/' the apartments are 
fitted with electric bells. 

Here the occupier is lodged for the time 
being, allowed food at each meal to the 
value of fourpence, and eventually tried at 
the Thames Police-court. Look at the 
doors. They bear countless dents from the 
boot-tips of young men endeavouring to 
perform the clever acrobatic feat of kicking 
out the iron grating over the door through 
which the gas-jet gives them light. Those 
of a musical nature ring the electric bell 
for half an hour at a time, imagining that 
they are disturbing the peace of the officer 
in a distant room. But our smart constable, 
after satisfying himself that all is well, dis- 
connects the current, and sits smiling at his 
ease, Some of the inmates, too, amuse them- 
selves by manufacturing streamers out of the 
blankets* They never do it a second 

Now we are on our way to the riverside. 


•v -- 

pass on our way to the cells — cosy, clean, 
and convenient apartments, and decidedly 
cheap to the temporary tenant. There are 
two of them, one being specially retained for 
women. They are painted yellow, provided 
with a wash-basin, towel, a supply of soap, 

We descend the wooden steps, soaked 
through with the water which only a few 
hours previously has been washing the 
stairs. Our boat is in waiting, manned by 
three sturdy fellows, under the charge of an 
inspector, Gtilpa glorious night ; the moon 




seems to have come out just to throw a light 
upon our artist's note-book, and to provide 
a picture of the station standing out in 
strong relief. The carpenter — for they re- 
pair their own boats here— looks out from 
his shop door, and shouts a cheery " Good- 

of ingenuity was rewarded with ten years' 
penal servitude. 

Our little craft has a lively time amongst 
the fire-floats — for fires are just as likely to 
occur on the river as on the land, and accord- 
ingly small launches are dotted about here 


night." Our galley receives a gentle push 
into the water, and we start on a long beat 
of seven and a half miles. 

Save for the warning of a passing tug, 
the river is as a place of the dead. How 
still and solemn ! But a sudden 
"Yo-ho" from the inspector breaks the 

It is the method of greeting as one police 
galley passes another. 

11 Yo-ho ! " replies the man in charge of 
the other boat. 

"All right. Good-night." 

These river police know every man who 
has any business on the water at night. If 
the occupant of a boat was questioned, and 
his"Yo-ho" did not sound familiar, he 
would be u towed " to the station. 

A simple u Yo-ho ,! once brought about 
a smart capture. The rower was mystified 
at the magic word, got mixed "in his 
replies, and accordingly was accommodated 
with a private room at the station for the 
night. It transpired that this river pur- 
loiner had stolen the boat, and, being of a 
communicative disposition, was in the habit 
of getting on friendly terms with the watch- 
men of the steamers, and so contrived to 
gain an entrance to the cabins, from which 
money and watches disappeared. This piece 

Digiiiz&d by V*OOQ K 

and there, fulfilling the same duties as the 
more formidable - looking engines on 
terra firma. A red light signifies their 
whereabouts, and they usually lie alongside 
the piers, so as to be able to telephone 
quickly should afire occur. If the police 
saw flames, they would act exactly as their 
comrades do on land, and hurry to the 
nearest float to give the alarm. 

It blows cold as we spin past Traitor's 
Gate at the Toner, but our men become 
weather-beaten on the Thames, and their 
hands never lose the grip of the oar. 
They need a hardy frame, a robust constitu- 
tion, for no matter what the weather, 
blinding snow or driving rain, these water 
guardians come out — the foggiest night de- 
tains them not ; they have to get through 
the fog and their allotted six hours. At 
the time of the Fenian scare at the House 
of Correction, thirty six hours at a stretch 
was considered nothing out of the way. 

Now the lights of Billingsgate shine out, 
and we experience a good deal of dodging 
outside the Custom House, The wind is 
getting up, and the diminutive sprat-boats 
are taking advantage of the breeze to return 
home. Some are being towed along. And 
as the oars of our little craft touch the 
water, every turn's eyes are fixed in order 




to catch sight of anything like the appear- 
ance of a nib sing person, A record of the 
missing, as well as the found, is kept at the 
station we have just left a mile or two down 
the river. Ten poor creatures remain yet 
to be discovered. What stories, thrilling 
and heartrending, we have to listen to 1 Yet 
even in such pitiful occurrences as these, 
much that is grimly humorous often sur- 
round 5 1 h em . Man y a re t h e sad r eco g n i t ioi 1 s 
on the part of those * b found drowned." 
Experience has taught the police to stand 
quietly behind those who must needs 
go through such a terrible ordeal, and who 
often swoon at the first sight. Where 
is a more touching story than that of the 
little girl who tramped all the way from 
Camden Town to Wapping, for the purpose 
of identifying her father, who had been 
picked up near the Old Stairs? 
She was a brave little lass, and 
looked up into the policeman's face 
as he took her by the hand and 
walked with her towards the mor- 
tuary. As they reached the door 
and opened it* the bravery of the 
child went to the man's heart. He 
was used to this sort of thing, but t 
when he thought of the orphan, 
the tears came to his eyes ; he 
turned away for a mohient, lest his 
charge should see them and lose 
what strength her tiny frame pos- 
sessed* He hesitated before he 
let her go in. 

M You're not fright- 
ened, are you, police- 
man ? " she asked inno- 

He could not move, 
and she went in alone. 
When the constable 
followed, he found the 
child with her arms 
round her dead father's 
neck, covering his face 
with tears and kisses. 

We shoot beneath 
London Bridge, and the commotion 
brought about by a passing tug 
causes our men to rest their oars 
as we are lifted like a cork by the 
disturbed waves. And as the great 
dome of St. Paul's appears in sight, 
standing out solemnly against the 
black night, we pull our wraps 
around us, as a little preliminary 
to a story volunteered by the 
captain of our crew* The river 

Digitized by Google 

police could tell of many a remarkable clue 
to i4entification — & piece of lace, or the 
button of a man's trousers. But the in* 
spector has a curious story of a watch to 
relate — true every word of it. 

M Easy ! " he cries to his men — " look to 
it— now get along, 11 and to the steady swing 
of the oars he commences. 

ifc It all turned on the inscription engraved 
on a watch," he says. "When I came to 
search the clothing of the poor fellow 
picked up, the timekeeper was found in 
his pocket. It was a gold one, and on the 
case was engraved an inscription, setting 
forth that it had been given to a sergeant 
in the Marines. Here was the clue sought 
after — -the drowned man had evidently been 
in the army. The following morning I 
was on my way to Spring Gardens, when in 


Original from 




passing down the Strand I saw a marine, 
whom I was half inclined to question. I 
did not, however, do so, but hurried on my 
sorrowful mission. 

4b On my arrival, I asked if they knew 

anything of Sergeant . Yes, they 

did. I must have passed him in the Strand, 
for he had gone to Coutts 1 Bank ! 1 was 
perfectly bewildered. Here was the very 
man found drowned, still alive ! 

I could only wait until his return* Then 
the mystery was soon explained, It seemed 
that the sergeant had sold his gold watch 
in order to get a more substantial silver 
■one, on condition that the purchaser should 
take the inscription off. This he failed to 
do, and he in his turn parted with the 
timekeeper to another buyer, who had finally 
committed suicide with the watch still in 
his pocket. 

Our police galley is now alongside the 
station, just below Waterloo Bridge, It is 

Digitized by GoOgk"' 

not far to seek why it has been found 
necessary to establish a depot here. We 
look up at the great bridge which spans 
the river at this point, named alas ! with 
only too much truth, "The Bridge of Sighs," 
The dark water looks inviting to those 
burdened with trial and trouble, a place to 
receive those longing for rest and yearning 
for one word of sympathy* More suicides 
occur at this spot than at any other along 
the whole length of the river, 
though Whitehall Stairs and Adel- 
phi Stairs are both notorious places, 
where such poor creatures end their 
existence. Some twenty -one sui- 
cides have been attempted at this 
point during the past 
year, and twenty-five 
bodies found. 

As we step on the tim- 
ber station the sensation 
is extremely curious to 
those used to the firm 
footing of the pavement. 
But Inspector Gibbons — 
a genial member of the 
river force — assures us 
that one soon becomes 
accustomed to the inces 
sant rocking. Waterloo 
Police Station — familiar 
to all river pedestrians 
during the summer 
[" months, owing to the 
picturesque appearance it 
presents with its pots of 
geraniums and climbing 
fuchsias — is a highly interesting corner. 

Just peep into the Inspector's room, and 
make friends with 4i Dick/* the cat, upon 
whose shoulders rests the weight of four 
years and a round dozen pounds. Dick is 
a capital swimmer, and has been in the 
water scores of times. Moreover, he is a 
veritable feline policeman, and woe betide 
any trespassers of his own race and breed. 
When a cat ventures within the sacred pre- 
cincts of the station, Dick makes friends 
with the intruder for the moment, and, in 
order to enjoy the breeze, quietly edges him 
to the extreme end of the platform, and 
suddenly pushes him overboard. ft< Another 
cat last night," is a common expression 
amongst the men here. 

The Waterloo Police Station on occasion 
becomes a temporary hospital and a home 

Only half an hour previous to our arrival 
there had been an attempted suicide, and in 




a little room, at the far end of the pier, 
there was every sign that efforts had only 
recently been successfully made to restore 
animation to a young fellow who had thrown 
himself off Blackfriars Bridge. He 
had been picked up by a passing 
skiff, and his head held above water 
until a steamboat passed by and took 
him on board. 

Here is a bed in the corner, with 
comfortable-looking pillow and thick, 
warm blankets, where the 
unfortunate one is put to 
bed for a period, previous to 
being sent to the Infirmary, 
and afterwards charged. 
Close at hand is a little 
medicine chest, containing 
numerous medicine phials, a 
flask of stimulants, and a 
smelling-bottle* A dozen or 
so of tins, of all shapes and 
sizes, are handy. These are 
filled with hot water and 
placed in contact with the 
body of the person rescued 
from the river. 

It is often an hour before 
anything approaching ani- 
mation makes itself visible, 
and even four hours have 
elapsed before any sign has 
been apparent, T*he rescued 
one is laid upon a wooden 
board, below which is a bath, 
and rubbed by ready hands 
according to Dr, Sylvester's method, whose 
instructions are prominently displayed upon 
the wall, and are understood by all the police. 

It will be noticed in the picture that two 
men are apparently about to undress the 
hapless creature who has attempted her own 
life. The first thought that will occur to 
the reader on looking at the illustration 
is, that a member of her own sex ought to 
to do this work* It must be remembered, 
however, that weeks may elapse without 
any such event, and there is no place at 
Waterloo Bridge where a woman could be 
kept constantly in waiting, Still, it is 
clearly not right that the men should do 
this duty, and we think they might be enabled 
to go to some house in the neighbourhood, 
in which arrangements had been made for 
the services of a woman in cases of emer- 
gency. We do not forget that great 
promptness is required at such times in 
order to resuscitate the body. But, when 
we remember that every branch in thg 


police system on the Thames is so perfect, 
it seems a pity that some means cannot be 

Many remarkable things might be told 
about people who have been in this room. 
One poor fellow was once an inmate who 
was humorous to the last. When he was 
brought in, a pair of dumb-bells were found 
in his pocket, and a piece of paper on which 
was scrawled in charcoal the following :— 

*' Dear Bob, — I am going to drown my- 
self. You will find me somewhere near 
Somerset House. I can't part with my old 
friends, Bob, so Fm going to take them with 
me. Good-bye." 1 

The man was evidently an athlete, and 
the (, old friends IJ referred ■ to were the 
weighty dumb-bells. 

Many have been picked up with their 
pockets full of granite stones or a piece of 
lead. One was found with the hands tied 
together with a silk handkerchief — a love- 



so pitifully. A woman, too, was dis- 
covered with a summons in her pocket, 
which was put down as the cause of her 
untimely end. ■ 

Remarkable are the escapes of would- 
be suicides. In one instance a woman threw 
herself off one of the bridges, and instead of 
falling into the water, jumped into a passing 
barge. She had a child in her arms. The 
little one died at Guy's Hospital, but the 
mother recovered. Some time ago a woman 
jumped off Westminster Bridge, and floated 
safely down to the Temple Stairs, where she 
was picked up. She had" gone off the bridge 
feet first, the wind had caught her clothes, 
and by this means her head was kept up, 
and she was saved. 

Perhaps, however, the strangest case and 
one of the most romantic, was that of Alice 
Blanche Oswald. Previous to committing 
suicide she wrote letters to herself, purport- 
ing to come from wealthy people in America, 
and setting forth a most heartrending 
history. Her death aroused a vast amount 
of public sympathy. A monument to her 
memory was suggested, and subscriptions 
were already coming in, when inquiries 
proved that her supposed friends in America 
did not exist, and that the story contained 
in the missives was a far from truthful one. 
She was nothing more than an adventuress. 

As we glance in at the solitary cell, built 
on exactly the same principle as those at 
Wapping, in which eleven enterprising in- 
dividuals have been accommodated at one 
time, we learn of the thousand and one 
odds and ends that are washed up — re- 
volvers and rifles, housebreaking instru- 
ments which thoughtful burglars have got 
rid of ; the plant of a process for manufac- 
turing counterfeit bank-notes, with some of 
the flimsy pieces of paper still intact. A 
plated cup was once picked up at Waterloo, 
which turned out to be the proceeds of a 
burglary at Eton College ; it is probable 
the cup floated all the way from the 
Thames at Windsor to Waterloo. 

Forty-eight men are always on duty at 
this station, including four single men, 
whose quarters are both novel and decidedly 
cosy. This quartet of bachelors sleep in 
bunks, two above the others. The watch of 

one of the occupants is ticking away in one 
berth, whilst a clock is vieing with it next 
door. These men have each a separate 
locker for their clothes, boot-brushes, tea- 
pot, coffee-pot, food, &c. The men do all 
their own cleaning and cooking ; if you will, 
you may look into a kitchen in the corner, 
in which every pot and pan is as bright as 
a new pin. 

But our time is up ; the chiming of " Big 
Ben " causes the genial inspector gently to 
remind us that we must be off, and once 
more we are seated in the boat, and, cutting 
right across the river, move slowly on our 
way to Greenwich, where the old Royalist 
is transformed into a station, a familiar in- 
stitution some sixteen or seventeen years 
ago at Waterloo. 

The whole scene is wonderfully impres- 
sive — not a sound is to be heard but the 
distant rumbling of the vehicles over 
London Bridge. Our men pause for a 
moment and rest their oajs. The great 
wharves are deserted, the steamers and 
barges appear immovable as they lie along- 
side — there is no life anywhere or any sign 
of it. Again we get alonp, halting for a 
moment to look up at the old man-o'-war, 
the famous Discovery, which ventured out 
to the Arctic regions under Captain Nares. 
The old three-mast schooner — for the vessel 
is nothing more now, being used as a river 
carrier of the stores from the Victualling 
Yard at Deptford to the various dockyards 
— ftad on board when she went to colder 
regions a future member of the Thames 
Police : hence he was called " Arctic Jack " 
by his companions, a near relation to 
" Father Neptune," a cognomen bestowed 
upon another representative of the force, 
owing to the wealth of white beard which 
he possessed. 

Past Deptford Cattle Market, the red 
lamps on the jetties light up the water ; a 
good pull and we are at Greenwich Steps, 
near to which is "The Ship," ever asso- 
ciated with the name of" whitebait." Our 
beat is ended, and a hearty " Good-night " 
is re-echoed by the men as we stand watch- 
ing them on the river steps whilst tjiey 
pull the first few strokes on their way home 
to Wapping. 


The Maid of Treppi* 

From the German of Paul Heyse. 
( Continued from page 69. ) 



E had not gone very far from 
her before he found himself 
between rocks and bushes 
and without a path ; for how- 
ever much he might deny it 
to himself, the words of this 
extraordinary girl had made him anxious at 
heart, and all his thoughts were centred on 
himself. However, he still saw the shep- 
herd's fife on the opposite meadow, and 
worked his way through manfully, trying to 
get down to the plain below. He reckoned by 
looking at the sun that it must be about ten 
o'clock. But when he had climbed down the 
steep mountain side, he came upon a shady 
road, and then to a wooden bridge across a 
fresh stream. This seemed to lead up the 
other side, and out on to the meadow. He 
followed it, and at first the path was a very 
steep one, but then went winding along the 
mountain side. He soon saw that it would 
not bring him very quickly to his destina- 
tion ; but large overhanging rocks above 
prevented his taking a straighter direction, 
and he was obliged to trust himself to his 
path, unless he turned back altogether. 
He walked on rapidly,* and at first as 
though loosed from bonds, glancing now 
and then up at the hut, which did not seem 
to draw near. By and by, when his blood 
began to cool, he recalled all the details of 
the scene he had just gone through. He 
saw the lovely girl's face bodily before him, 
and not as before through the mist of his 
anger. He could not help feeling full of 
pity for her. " There she sits," he said to 
himself, "poor crazy thing, and trusts to 
her magic arts. That was why she left the 
hut by moonlight, to pluck who knows 
what harmless plant. Why, yes ; my 
brave contrabandists showed me the strange 
white flowers grpwing between the rocks, 
and told me they were sure always to evoke 
mutual love. Innocent flowers, what things 
are imputed to you ! And that, too, was 
why the wine was so bitter on my tongue. 
How everything child-like, the older it is, 
becomes the stronger and more honoured ! 
She stood before me like a sibyl, stronger 
and surer, in her faith than any of those 
Roman ones who cast their books into 
the flames. Poor heart of woman, how 
lovely, yet how wretched in delusion ! " 

The further he went on his way, the more 
he felt the touching grandeur of her love, 
and the power of her beauty enhanced by 
the separation. " I ought not to have made 
her suffer for wishing in all good faith to 
save me by freeing me from inevitable 
duties. I ought to have taken her hand 
and to have said : i I love you Fenice, and, if 
I live, I will come back to you and take you 
home.' How blind of me not to think of 
that suggestion ! a disgrace for any lawyer ! 
I ought to have taken leave of her with a 
lover's kisses, and then she would never have 
suspected I was deceiving her. Instead of 
which I tried to be straightforward where 
she was defiant, and I only made things 

Then he buried himself in thoughts of 
such a leave-taking, and seemed to feel her 
breath and the pressure of her red lips on 
his own. It was as though he heard his 
name called. " Fenice ! " he answered 
eagerly, and stood still, with beating heart. 
The stream flowed on below him, the 
branches of the fir trees hung motionless ; 
far and near was a vast, shady wilderness. 

Once again her name rose to his lips, but 
shame in time sealed his mouth — shame 
and a sort of terror as well. He struck his 
forehead with his hand. " Am I already so 
far gone that waking I dream of her ? " he 
exclaimed. u Is she right, and can no man 
under the sun resist her charm ? Then I 
were no better than she would make me 
out to be, worthy only \o be called a 
woman's man all my life long. No, away 
with you, you lovely, treacherous fiend ! " 

He had regained his conjposure for the 
time being, but he now perceived that he 
had utterly and entirely strayed from the 
path. He could not go back without 
running into the arms of danger. So he 
decided at all hazards to climb to some high 
point from which he could look about him 
for the shepherd's hut. Where he was 
walking, the one bank of the rushing stream 
below was too steep and precipitous. So 
he fastened his coat round his neck, chose 
a safe spot, and at one bound had leapt 
across to the other side of the chasm, the 
walls of which at that place nearly met. With 
fresh courage he climbed the precipice on 
the other side and soon stood out in the sun, 



It scorched his head, and his tongue was 
dry, as he worked his way upward with 
great exertion. Then, suddenly, he was 
seized with the fear that, after all his 
trouble, he w T ould not be able to reach his 
destination. The blood went to his head 
more and more ; he abused the infernal 
wine that he had swallowed in the morn- 
ing, and was forced to think of the white 
blossoms that had been pointed out to him + 
the day before. They grew here too. He 
shuddered. What if it were true, he 
thought, that there were powers which 
enthrall our heart and senses, and bend a 
man's will to a girl's whim ? better any 
extremity than such a disgrace 1 rather 
death than slavery \ u But no, no ! a lie 
can only conquer one who believes in it- 
Be a man, Filippo ; forward, the summit is 
before you ; but a short while, and this 
cursed haunted mountain will be left 
behind for ever ! v 

And yet he could not calm the fever in 
his veins- Each stone, each slippery place, 
every bare pine-branch hanging before 
him, were obstacles which he surmounted 
only by an almost superhuman effort 
of will- When he at last arrived at the 
top, and still holding to the last bush, 
swung himself on to the summit, he could 
not look about him for the rapid coursing 
of the blood to his head, and the blinding, 
dazzling light of the sun on the yellow 
rocks around. Furiously he rubbed his 
forehead, and passed his fingers through his 
tangled hair as he lifted his hat. But then 
he heard his name again in real earnest, 
and gazed horror-struck in the direction 
from which came the sound. And there, a 
few paces from him, Fenice sat on a rock 
just as he had left her, gazing at him with 
intensely happy eyes* 

" At last you have come, Filippo ! " she 
said, earnestly. " I expected you sooner/ 1 

i( Spirit of evil, 11 he shrieked, beside him- 
self, and inwardly torn in two by horror 
and attraction, li do you still mock me who 
have been wandering distressed in these 
forsaken places, and with the sun beating 
down into my very brain ? Is it any 
triumph for you that I am forced to see you, 
only to curse you once again ? By heaven, 
though I have found you, I have not 
sought you, and you will lose me yet." 

&he shook her head with a strange smile* 
"Something attracts you without your 
knowledge, 11 she said* " You would find 
me though all the mountains in the world 


were between us, for I mixed with 


by Google 

wine seven 
drops of the 
dog's heart- 
blood. Poor 
Fuoco ! He 
loved me and 
hated y o u. 
Thus will you 
hate the Filippo 
who so lately 
east me off, and 
will find peace 
only if you love 
me. Do you 
see now, Filippo, that I have conquered 
you at last ? Come, now I will again show 
you the way to Genoa, my darling, my 
beloved, my husband ! " 

And she stood up and would have 
embraced him ; but the sight of his face 
suddenly startled her. He turned all at 
once pale as death , only the white of the 
eyes was red ; his lips moved, but no sound 
came ; his hat had fallen from his head, and 
with his hands he violently waved off her 

" A dog ! a dog ! " were the first words 
he with difficulty ejaculated. li No, no, 
no ! you shall not conquer — demon that 
you are. Better a dead man than a living 
clog ! " Thereupon he burst into a peal 
of terrible laughter, and slowly, as though 
he fought hard for each step, his eyes fixed 
and staring at the girl, he staggered and 
fell back into the ravine behind him. 

For an instant her head swam, and all 

seemed dark around her. She pressed her 

hands to hejr heart, and when she saw the 

tall form disappear over the edge of the 

rock, she gave a scream which resounded 

through the ravine like the cry of a falcon. 

She tottered forward a few steps, and then 

stood straight and upright, her hands still 

pressed to her heart, *' Madonna' 11 she 

exclaimed mechanically. 

Original from 




Still looking before her she rapidly drew 
near the edge, and began to climb down the 
stony wall between the fir trees. Words 
without sense or meaning broke from her 
trembling lips. One hand she pressed against 
her heart, while with the other she helped 
herself down by branches and stones. Thus 
she reached the foot of the trees. 

There he lay, his eyes closed, his hair and 



forehead covered with blood, his back against 
the foot of an old tree, His coat was torn, 
and his right leg seemed hurt. She could 
not tell whether he was still alive. She 
took him in her arms, and then felt that 
he still moved, u Praised be the Lord I '' 
she said, and breathed more freely. She 
seemed to be endowed with a giant's 
strength as -he began tu climb the steep 
ascent , carrying the helpless man in her 

arms. But it was a weary way, 
times she laid him down on the 
rocks, Ke was still unconscious. 

When at last she gained the summit with 
her hapless burden, ^he too sank down, 
and lay for a moment fainting and oblivious. 
Then she got up and went in the direction 
of the shepherd's hut. As soon as she 
was near enough, she gave a shrill cry across 
the valley. She was answered 
first by echo only, then by a man's 
voice. She repeated her cry and 
then turned back without waiting 
for the answer. When she stood 
again beside the senseless man T she 
groaned aloud, and lifting him, 
carried hi ni into the shade of the 
rock, where she herself had been 
sitting waiting for him. 

When he awoke to conscious- 
ness, and slowly opened his eyes 
again, he found himself still there. 
He saw two shepherds beside him, 
an old man and a lad of about 
seventeen. They were throwing 
water in his face and rubbing his 
temples. His head was pillowed 
softly. He little knew that it wa= 
in the girl's lap. He seemed alto- 
gether to have forgotten her. He 
drew a long breath, which made 
his whole frame quiver, and again 
closed his eyes. At last he said in * 
trembling tones, u Will one of you 
good people go down — quickly, to 
Pistoja. I am expected there. May 
God, in His mercy, reward who- 
ever will tell the landlord of the 
For tuna — what has happened to 

me. My name is '■ but here 

his voice failed him. He had fainted again. 
11 1 will go,* T said the girl, ll Meanwhile, 
you two must carry the gentleman to Treppi 
and lay him in the bed which Nina will 
show you. She must send for the 
ifriaruccia, the old woman, and let her 
attend to the gentleman and dress his 
wounds. Lift him up ; you take the shoulders, 
Tommaso ■ you, Bippo, take the legs. When 
you go uphill, you must go first, Tommaso. 
Now, raise him gently, gently ! and, stay — 
dip this in water and lay it on his forehead, 
and wet it again at every spring. Do you 
understand ? 1T 

She tore off a great piece of the linen 
kerchief on her head, dipped it in water and 
laid it on Filippo's bleeding brow. Then 
they lifted him, and the men started to 
carry him to Treppi. Pfftice, after watching 



them some time with anxious straining eyes, 
gathered up her skirts and went rapidly 
down the rough and stony mountain path. 

It was nearly three in the afternoon when 
she reached Pistoja, The For tuna Inn was 
some hundred paces outside the town t and 
at this hour of siesta there was not much 
life about the place. Carriages, with the 
horses taken out, stood in the shade under 
the overhanging roof, the drivers fast asleep 
on the cushions ; opposite, too, at the great 
smithy, work had stopped ; and not a breath 
of air penetrated through the 
dusty trees along the high 
road. Fenice went up to the 
fountain before the house, 
the busy jet of water flowing 
ceaselessly down into the 
great stone trough, and there 
refreshed her hands and face* 
Then she took a long slow 
drink to satisfy both thirst 
and hunger, and went into 
the inn. 

The landlord got up 
sleepily from the bench at 
the bar, but sat down again 
when he saw that it was 
only a girl from the hills 
who thus disturbed his rest. 

"What do you want?" 
he said to her sharply. M If 
you want anything to eat, or 
wtne to drink, go to the 

11 Are you the landlord ? Tl 
she asked quietly. 

u I should think so ; I should think 
everyone knew me — Baldassare Tizzi, 
of the Fortuna* What do you bring 
me, my good girl ? " 

"A message from the lawyer, 
Signor Filippo llannini." 

" Eh, what ? Indeed ? That's another 
matter," and he got up hurriedly. IN Js he 
not coming himself, child ? There are some 
gentlemen here waiting for him." 

i4 Then take me to them." 

"What, secrets? May" J not know what 
message he sends to these gentlemen ? M 

"No/ 1 

"Well, well, my child, well, well. 
Each one has his own secrets — your pretty 
little obstinate head as well as old Baldas- 
sare's hard pate. So he is not coming ? 
The gentlemen will not be pleased at that ; 
they evidently have important business with 

He stopped and looked at the girl with a 
sidelong glance. But as she did not show 
any signs of taking him further into her con- 
dence, and went to open the door, he put 
on his straw hat and went with her, shaking 
his head all the time. 

There was a small vineyard at the back 
of the inn, which they walked through, the 
old man keeping up a continued How of 
questions and exclamations, to which the 
girl did not deign to reply. At the further 
end of the middle walk stood a poor-looking 
summerhouse ; the shutters were closed, 


and inside a thick curtain hung be- 
hind the glass door. The landlord made 
Fenice stop a little way from this pavilion, 
and went up to the door, which was opened 
when he knocked. Fenice noticed how 
the curtain was then drawn on one sidt% and 
a pair of eyes looked out at her. Then the 
old man came back to her and said that the 
gentlemen would speak to her. 

As Fenice entered the pavilion, a man, 
who had been sitting at the table with his 
back to the door 5 rose from his seat and gave 
a sharp and penetrating look at her. Two 
other men remained. seated. On the table 
she saw boty&'fc'air ^i&S 1 Bfad glasses. 




K IsSignor FilippOj the lawyer, not coming 
according to promise?" asked the man 
before whom she stood, l * Who are you, 
and what verification have you of your 
message ? * T 

"I am Fenice Cattaneo, sir; a maiden 
from Treppi Verification ? I have none, 
except that I am speaking the truth. TT 

44 Why is he not coming ? We thought 
he was a man of honour/ 1 ' 

"And he is so still i but he has fallen 
from a rock and hurt his head and legs, 
and is unconscious," 

Her interlocutor exchanged looks with 
the other man T and then said : 

" You betray the truth at all events, 
Fenice Cattaneo, because you do notundcr- 

mam " You arc doubtless Signor Filippo's 
sweetheart, eh ? ?t 

41 Xo, the Madonna knows I am not ! " 
replied she in her deepest voice. The men 
whispered together, and she heard one of 
them say : " That nest up there is Tuscan 
still.'* — " You don't seriously believe in this 
dodge ? T ' asked the third. i4 He is no more 
at Treppi than— — - ,J 

Their whispering was interrupted by 
Fenice: "Come and see for yourselves! 
But you must not carry arms if I am to be 
your guide." 

" Foolish child," said the first speaker, 
11 do you think that we would take the lift: 
of so pretty a creature as you ? " 

11 No, but his life ; I feel sure you would.' 1 

- -j i 


stand how to lie. If he had lost conscious- 
ness, how could he send you here to tell us 
of it ? " 

11 Speech came back to him at intervals 
And he then said that he was expected 
here at the inn ; I was to let you know 
what had happened to him. 1 * 

One of the other men gave a short, dry 
lau^h. il You see/' said the speaker, 
11 these gentlemen do not believe much of 
your tale either. Certainly it is easier to 
play the poet than the man of honour/ 1 

" If, Signor, you mean by that that Signor 
Filippo has not come here out of cowardice, 
then it is an abominable falsehood, and may 
heaven reckon it to you ! ,T She said this 
fiercely, and looked at them all three in 

" You wax warm, little one/' scoffed the 

"Hive you any other conditions to make, 
Fenice Cattaneo K* 

" Yes, that you take a surgeon with you. 
Perhaps you already have one with you, 
signor s ? ' ? 

No one answered her. But the* three 
men put their heads together in eager talk. 
"When we arrived I saw him by chance in 
the front part of the house," said one of 
them ; " I hope he has not yet gone back 
to the town/- and then he left the pavilion. 
He came back shortly with a fourth in- 
dividual, who did not seem to know the 
rest of the party. 

11 Will you do us the favour to go up to 
Treppi with us ? " asked the first speaker. 
11 You have probably been told what it is all 

^FMiwaisif andt ^ a11 



left the pavilion. As they parsed the kit- 
chen, Fenice asked for same bread, and ate 
a few mouthful*. Then she went on in 
front of the party, and took the road to the 
mountains, She paid no heed to her com- 
panions, who were talking eagerlv together, 
but hurried on as fast as she could ; some- 
times they had to call to her, or she would 
have been lost to sight. Then she stood 
still, and gazed into space in a hopeless, 
dreamy way, her hand firmly pressed to her 
heart. The evening 
had closed in before 
they reached the 

The little village 
of Treppi looked no 
livelier than usual. 
A few children's 
faces peered 
curiously out at the 
open windows, and 
one or two women 
came out to their 
doors, as Fenice 
went past with her 
companions. She 
spoke to no one as 
she drew near her 
home, returning the 
neighbours 1 greet- 
ing with a hasty 
wave of the hand. 
A group of men 
stood talking before 
the door, others were 
busy with some 
horses, and contra- 
bandists hurried to 
and fro, A sudden 
silence came over 
the people, as they 
saw the strangers 
approaching. They 

stepped on one side, and allowed thorn to 
pass. Fenice exchanged a few words with 
Nina in the big room, and then opened her 
own chamber door. 

The wounded man lay stretched on the 
bed in the dimly- lighted room. An old, old 
woman, from the village, sat on the floor 
beside him* 

^ " How goes it, chiaruccia f ,? asked 

lk Not so badly, praised be the Madonna ! " 
answered the old woman, measuring with 
rapid glances the gentlemen who followed 
the girl into the room. 

Digitized by GGOgle 

Filrppo started suddenly out of his sleep, 
his pale face glowing. u Is it you?* 1 he 

" Yes ; I have brought with me the gen- 
tleman with whom you were to fight, that 
he may see for himself that you could not 
go. And there is a surgeon here, too/* 

The dull eye of the wounded man slowly 
surveyed the four strange faces. 4 * He is 
not one of them/- he said, ** I know 
none of these gentlemen/' 

When he had said 
this, and was about 
to close his eyes 
again, the chief 
spokesman stepped 
forward : u It is 
sufficient that w r e 
know you" he said, 
" Sign or F Hippo 
Mannini* We had 
orders tu await you 
and arrest you. 
Letters of yours 
have been found, 
from which it ap- 
pears that it is not 
only to fight a duel 
that you have come 
back to Tuscany, 
but to renew certain 
connections through 
which your party 
will receive ad- 
vances. You see 
*before you the com- 
missary of police, 
and here are my 
orders/' He took 
a paper out of his 
pocket, and held it 
out to Filippo. But 
he only stared at it 
as if he had not 
understood a word, 
again into a half-stunned 


and fell back 

•'Examine his wounds, doctor/' said the 
commissary, turning to the surgeon. u If his 
state in any way permits, we must have this 
gentleman transported down without delay. 
I saw horses outside. We shall be enforcing 
the law in two ways if we take possession of 
them, for they are laden with smuggled 
goods. It is a good thing to know what 
kind of people visit Treppi , if one really 
wishes for the information/' 

As he said this, and the surgeon 
approached the bed, Fenice disappeared out 




of the room. The old chiarttccia sat ori 
quietly where she was, muttering to herself, 
Voices were heard out side , and a great 
bustle of people coming and going, faces 
looked in at the hole in the wall, but disap- 
peared again quickly. 

"It is just possible j'" said the sur- 
geon, ll that we can get him con- 
veyed down, if his wounds are well and 
firmly bandaged. Of course, he would get 
well much quicker if he were left here 
quietly in the care of this old witch, whose 
herbs and balsams would put to shame the 
most learned physician. His life might be 
endangered by wound-fever on the way, 
and I will on no account take any responsi- 

" It is not necessary — not at all/' re- 
turned the commissary. ll The way we get 
rid of him need not be taken into considera- 
tion. Put your bandages on him as tightly 
as you can, that nothing be wanting, and 
then forward ! It is moonlight, and we 
will take a guide, Go you outside, Molza, 
and make sure of the horses.'' 

The constable to whom this order was 
addressed opened the door quickly, and 

head, Fenice was still talking to them as 
the door opened* She now advanced to her 
own chamber door, and said with ringing 
tones : — 

M Gentlemen, you must leave this room 
immediately, and without the wounded 
man, or you will never see Pistoja again. 
No blood has ever been shed in this house as 
long as Fenice Cattaneo has been mistress 
of it, and may the Madonna ever pre- 
serve us from such horrors. Nor must you 
attempt to come back again with a stronger 
force. Remember the place where the 
rocky steps wind up between the cliffs. 
A child could defend that pass, if the 
stones that lie on the top were rolled over 
the edge. We will keep a watch posted 
there until this gentleman is in safety. Now 
you can go, and boast of your heroic deed, 
that you deceived a girl, and would have 
murdered a wounded man. 1 ' 

The faces of the constables grew paler 
and paler, and a pause ensued after her last 
words* Then all three of them drew pistols 
out of their pocketSj and the commissary 
said calmly: * ( We come in the name 
of the law. If you do not respect it 


would have gone out, but stood petrified at 
the unexpected sight that met his view. 
The adjoining room was filled by a band 
of villagers, with two contrabandists at their 

yourselves, would you prevent others from 
enforcing it ? It may cost the lives of six of 
you, it you oblige us to carry out the law by 
force." Original from 




A murmur ran through the group, 

, friends ! J? exclaimed the deter- 

" They dare not do it, They 

know that for each one they shoot down, 

11 Silence 
mined girl 

slept soundly at night, and in the daytime 
he sat at the open door enjoying the' fresh 
air and the solitude. As soon as he was 
able to write once more, he sent a mes- 


his murderer would die a six-fold death. 
You speak like a fool," she went on, turn- 
ing to the 'commissary. t( The fear depicted 
on your faces is a more sensible spokesman. 
Do as it suggests to you. The way is open 
to you t gentlemen ! V 

She stepped back, pointing with her left 
hand to the door of the house- The men 
in the bedroom whispered together a little ; 
then, with tolerable composure, they 
marched through the excited band of 
villagers, whose parting curses waxed louder 
and louder as the strangers left the house. 
The surgeon seemed uncertain whether to 
go too, but, on an authoritative sign from 
the girl, he hastily joined his companions. 

The wounded man in bed had followed 
the entire scene with wide-open eyes. The 
old woman now went to him and settled 
his pillows. ^ Lie still, my son ! " she said. 
There is no danger. The old chzaruccia 
keeps watch, and our Fenice, blessed child, 
will see that you are safe. Sleep, sleep ! " 

She hushed him to slumber like a 
child, singing monotonously until he slept. 
But the face of Fenice was with him in 

his dreams, 


For ten days Filippo had been up in the 
mountains, nursed by the old won: 

< rOO 

senger to Bologna with a letter, to which 
he received an answer the next day ; 
but his pale countenance did not show 
whether it was satisfactory or not. He 
spoke to no one except his old nurse 
and the children from the village, Fenice 
he saw only in the evening, when she was 
busy at her fireside, for she left the house 
with the rising sun and remained away the 
whole day in the mountains. He gathered 
from chance remarks that this was not her 
usual custom. But even when she was in 
the house there was no opportunity of 
talking to her. Altogether, she seemed not 
to notice his presence in the very least, and 
her life went on as before. Rut her face 
had become like stone, and the light had 
faded from her eyes. 

One day, enticed on by the lovely 
weather, Filippo had gone further than 
usual from the house, and for the first 
time, conscious of returning strength, was 
climbing up a gentle slope, when, turning a 
corner of a rock, he was -tallied to see Fenice 
sitting on the moss beside a spring. She 
had a distaff and a spindle in her hands, 
and as she spun was lost in thought. She 
looked up when she heard Fihppo's foot- 
steps, but did not utter a word, nor did the 
expression of^iSwslflran^lter. She rose up 



i A l 

quickly and began to collect her 
things. She went away, too, without 
heeding that he called her, and was 
soon lost to sight. 

The morning after this meeting he 
had just risen, and his thoughts had 
flown to her again, when the door of 
his room was opened and Fen ice 
walked in quietly. She remained 
standing at the door, and waved him 
back haughtily when lie would have 
hurried up to her. 

"You are now quite cured," she 
said, coldly. " I have spoken to the 
old woman. She think- that you art 
strong enough to travel, in 
short stage.; and on horse- 
back. You will, therefore, 
leave Treppi to-morrow 
morning early, and never 
again return. I demand 
this promise from you." 

M I will give you the pro- 
mise, Fen ice, but on one 
condition only." 

She was silent* 

"That you will go with 
me, Fen ice ! JT he exclaimed 
in unrestrained emotion. 

Her brows kntt in anger. 
But she controlled herself, 
and, holding the door- 
handle said : fct How have I 
merited your mockery ? You 
must make the promise with- 
out a condition ; I exact it 
from your sense of honour, 

11 Would you thus 
cast me olT after caus- 
your love-potion 
enter my very 





mar row, and make 
me yours for ever, 
Feniee ?" 

She quietly 
shook her head. 
* k From hence* 
forth ill ere is no 
more magic be- 
tween us," she said, gloomily, u You had 
lost blood before the potion had had time to 
take effect ;. the spell is broken, And it is 
well, for I sec that I did wrong. Let us 
speak no more about it, and say only that 
you will go, A horse will be 
ready and a guide for wherever 
you wish to go. ,T 

u And if it be no longer the 

same magic which binds me to 

you, it must be some other which 

you know not of, Fenice. As sure as God 

U over us," 

" Silence ! " she interrupted, and curled 
her lip scornfully. " I am deaf to any 
speeches you can make. If you think 
you owe me anything and would Lake pity 
on me — then leave me, and that will settle 
ocr account. You shall not think that this 
poor head GfriQtHtf taftnlcani nothing, I 




know now that one can buy a man no more 
by humble services than by seven long years 
of waiting, which are also, in the sight of 
God, a matter of no moment. You must not 
think that you have made me miserable — 
you have cured me ! Go ! and my thanks go 
with you ! " 

11 Answer me } in God's 
exclaimed, beside himself 

nearer, "have I cured 


name ! " he 
as he drew 
also, of your 


"No," she said, firmly. "Why do you 
ask at^out it ? It belongs to me ; you have 
neither power nor right over it. Go ! M 

Thereupon she stepped back across the 
threshold. The next moment he had flung 
himself on the stones at her feet, and clasped 
her knees* 

" If what you say be true/' he cried, 
overcome with grief, " then save me, take 
me to yourself, or this head of mine, saved 
by a miracle, will go to pieces like my 
heart, which you reject and spurn. My 
world is a void, my life a prey to hatred 
and revenge, my old and my new homes 

banish me — what is there left for me to live 
for if I must lose you, too ? M 

Then he raised his eyes to her and saw 
the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her 
face was still immovable ; she drew a long 
breath and opened her ^ye^ ; her lips 
moved, but no sound came ; the life in her 
seemed to awaken with one burst. She 
bent down and raised him with her power- 
ful arms. tl You are mine/- she said, with 
trembling voice. "Then I, too, will be 
yours I " 

When the sun rose the following day, the 
pair were on their way to Genoa, whither 
Filippo had decided to retire from the per- 
secutions of his enemies. The pale, tall 
man rode on a steady horse, which his 
betrothed led by the bridle. On either side 
the hills and valleys of the beautiful 
Apennines lay bright in the clear autumnal 
air, the eagles were circling overhead , and 
far in the distance shone the deep-blue sea. 
And bright and tranquil like the farofiT ocean 
the traveller* 1 future lay before their eyes. 




Our Money Mamtfaciory. 

UMISMATICS is a science in 
which the vast majority of 
people probably take but the 
faintest interest. Yet the 
history of coinage, its develop- 
ments, its ramifications, is 
bound up indissolubly with the history of 
the human race. It is the history of 
money ; and money, as Carlyle said of his 
own time, is the one certain nexus as 
between man and man. Money is the 
determining factor in four-fifths of our re- 
lationships. It has made the world what 
it is ; on the one hand it has brutalized 
mankind, and on the other it has given man 
unrivalled opportunities of winning popu- 
lar esteem. Money has ruined and created 
individuals, families, States, Equally often 
it has brought worldly happiness and 
worldly misery ; it has broken hearts, un- 
hinged reasons, undone great enterprises ; 
it has shed light in dark places , secured 
comfort for the weary and the suffering 
and involved all that heart can desire, 
Noble knees 'have bent before "Lucre's 
sordid charms w ; 
the humble and 
the struggling 
have exalted 
themselves to 
place and power 
by its means, g 
Pope gives us an m 
idea not only of f 
the use but of the ; 
abuse to which 
riches may be 

Eut, from the 
iring of the dark 
assassin to the 
corruption of a 
friend, and the 
bribing of a 

Money in the 
form of cash has been 
infinitely more to civil- 
isation than mere bar- 
ter and exchange ever 
were to barbarous races content to accept 
one article in payment for another. It is, 
in fact, only necessary to let the mind 
dwell for a period on all that the possession 
or want of coin means lo- a people, indi- 


vidually and collectively, to render any 
inquiry into the working of our money 
manufactory one of considerable fascina- 
tion. The attractions of the Mint for the 
ordinary sightseer have, it would seem, 
yearly become greater, and in 1889, accord - 
ing to the Report of the Deputy Master, the 
number of visitors was larger than in any 
previous year, no less than 7,912 persons — 
that is, an average of twenty- five a day- 
having been shown over the establishment 
on Tower HilL Vivid an idea of the place 
as the illustrations which accompany this 
article will convey to those who have never 
been to the Mint, it may at once be said, 
that to thoroughly grasp the actual work 
done there, a visit is essential. It is an in- 
stitution round which centres so much 
human energy and scientific achievement 
that a picture should certainly make most 
people anxious to know something more 
about it- 

The Mint, as one approaches it on Tower 
Hill, suggests that it may be a barrack, and 
the sentry pacing up and down outside 

lends colour to 
this view, until 
one finds one's 
passage through 
the entrance gate 
bl oc k ed by a st ur d y 
policeman* Unless 
you happen to be 
fully armed with 
credentials, or or- 
ders, you will not 
easily run the 
gauntlet of the 
keeper of the peace 
and the gate, 
affable gentleman 
though he is, To 
be shown over the 
Mint you must 
get an order from 
the Deputy Master, and then 
everything is clear. 

Once within the precincts of 
the establishment, your educa- 
tion — if it is a first visit, as this of ours 
is — begins. You have probably, when 
pocketing your salary at the end of the 
week, never given a moment's thought 
as to theOfft^ej^i ftfti-jyhieh money comes 




into the world. The pounds (if you 
have any), the shillings, and the pence 
which you carry in your pockets are the 
result of a combination of experience awd 
skill which you, perhaps, little suspect. 

When the bullion — the metal in its pure 
state — arrives at the Mint, it is assayed — 
that is, tested. It is then passed on to the 
Melting-room, and, together with the baser 
metal which forms the alloy necessary to 
reduce it to the proper standard, placed in 
the crucible, or melting-pot. Let us take 
the coining of silver as an example, The 
crucible used is made of mixed clay and 
graphite, each vessel holding about three 

inches long and three-eighths of an inch 
thick* When removed from the moulds 
their edges are ragged, but a revolving file 
soon makes them smooth, and the bars are 
ready to be again assayed. A piece is 
chipped from one of them, and if the 
necessary standard of fineness has been 
secured, the bars pass to the next depart- 

This is the Rolling-room. The metal, 
it must be understood, is far from hard, 
and the reduction of the thickness and 
consequent increase in the length, due to 
the rolling of the bars, are not so difficult 
a matter as to the uninitiated they may 


thousand ounces. On two sides of the 
Melting-room are coke furnaces, and into 
one of these the crucible is dropped. 

Here it remains until the metal is at a 
molten heat, when it is lifted by means of 
a crane on to an apparatus shown in our 
illustration. This forms a pretty sight. 
The crucible is red-hot, and the boiling 
metal, as it is stirred vigorously by one of 
the men with an iron rod, emits a lovely 
bluish flame. The apparatus tilts the pot, 
and the metal runs into a series of moulds 
which move on a carriage underneath. 
These moulds being well oiled, the metal 
has no chance of becoming part of them. 
The bars formed in this wav are twelve 

Digitized by GoOglC 

seem- The bars are placed between adjust- 
able cylinders and rolled into strips, or 
u fillets" as they are called. 

They pass several times through the 
machine, being reduced the one -nineteenth 
part of an inch in each rolling at first, but, 
finally! only the one -hundredth part of an 
inch. Naturally the process makes the 
metal very hard, and it has to -be annealed 
— that is, heated and softened— constantly 
until it is the right thickness. We need 
only state that the strips from which half- 
sovereigns are made must not vary more 
than 1 -20,000th part of an inch — in other 
words, they must be within i-io,oooth part 

of 3fi inch- of .the .nominal thickness— to 
On g i rial from 




give an idea of the minute care with which 
every stage of the development of the coin 
has to be watched. Two-tenths of a grain 
is the divergence allowed in the weight of 
the sovereign, but even this margin may 
mean a difference of more than ^3,000 
on a million sovereigns. 

The strips, as they leave the RoJling- 
room, are about four feet long and double 
the width of the shilling. They are taken 
to the Cutting-room, and here for the first 
time we get something approaching a piece 
of money. The "fillets" are placed in 
the cutting- machines, by a man who feeds 
two at a time. No doubt many persons 
have formed the idea that the coin 
is cut, cucumber fashion, from a metal rod ; 
we have, indeed , heard people suggest as 
much* Well, the foregoing is sufficient to 
dispel any such notion. The fillet passes 
beneath two punches, and over holes the 
size of the coin. As the former descend 
with swift, sharp, irresistible force, they 
punch the 4I blanks " of the coin out of the 
strip. The blanks fall through a tube into a 
tray or pan, and what remains of the strips is 
sent back to the Melting-room, to be turned 
again into bars. In the case of shillings, 
two blanks are forced out at once* In the 
case of copper, five disappear at a blow, but 
in the case of large silver coins, only one 
blank is cut at a time. The blanks of the 




shilling are produced at the rate of same 300 
an hour. 

Having secured the blank, it might 
well be imagined that there was nothing 
more to be done but to impress it with the 
proper device on its obverse and reverse, 
But we are not yet more than half-way on 
the road to the coin which can be sent to 
the Bank, there to be handed "over 
the counter to the public. 

Close by the cutting-machine is 
what is called a marking-machine, 
The special function of this is to 
raise the edge which all coins 
possess for the protection of their 
face. The blank is run into a 
groove in a rapidly revolving disc, 
and edges are produced at the 
rate of between six and seven 
hundred an hour ; in fact, almost 
as quickly as the man can feed the 

We cannot help but listen pen- 
sively for a moment to the thud, 
thud, of the cutting machine as the 
punches strike the fillet, and watch 
with keen interest the express rate 
at which the marking is accom- 
plished. To see the blank being 
turned out at this pace is to make 
one's mouth literally water, and 
one's heart and pocket wish that it 



were so easy and so mechanical a busi- 
ness to u make money 1J in one's daily 
doings. And then it strikes us : What do 
these men, with their usually grimy aprons 
and often blackened faces, get for their 
work in turning out so much coin of the 
realm ? They seem to hare a very good 
time of it on the whole, and the conditions 
of light, warmth, 
and safely under 
which they labour 
are certainly in 
striking contrast 
to the trials, the 
dangers, and the 
dreariness of the 
lives of those who 
unearth the metal. 
On an average, 
each workman in 
the operative de- 
partment of the 
Mint makes his 
£2 1 os* a week. 
He enters the ser- 
vice of the department as 
a boy, and remains there 
through his working life, 
if he cares to do so and 
proves trustworthy- Xo 
one is accepted for employ- 
ment after sixteen years 
of age, and every precau- 
tion is taken by the 
authorities against the weakness of human 
nature. Each room is under a separate 
official, without whose assistance in the 
unlocking of doors no employ £ can leave- 
There is no hardship in this daily im- 
prisonment, every department being fitted 
up with all conveniences for cooking, eat- 
ing, &c + ; and, judging from what we have 
seen, we should say the lives of the opera- 
tives at the Mint are not unenviable. Of 
one thing we can speak very positively, and 
that is as to their natures ; their geniality is 
a characteristic they share in common with 
their chief superintendent, If one had 
seriously contemplated becoming an opera- 
tive, they could not have taken more pains 
to initiate one into the mysteries of the 

We now make our way to the Annealing- 
room. Here the scene changes entirely. 
The buzz, the whirr, and bang of the all 
powerful machinery give place to several fur- 
naces. The blanksare brought in in bags, are 
emptied into an iron tray, and shoved along 
an elongated sort of oven, of which 

illustration gives an excellent impression. 

It shows the man standing with the iron 
rod and hook in hand ready to push the 
tray to the farther end of the oven. 

We venture modestly to suggest that the 
structure would do admirably for the pur- 
poses of cremation. 

"Quite right, sir f it would! I suppose 
you wouldn't like to try it ? " 

We frankly and honestly confess 
we should not. 

, K 

anne.mjm; fuukack. 

>ven, ot wnien our 


After a few minutes the blanks arc 
sufficiently baked. If one's own valu- 
able carcase had been in that red-hot oven 
for ever so short a time, it would have come 
Out charred and hardened. Not so the 
metal, which is considerably softened. 

The blanksare now tipped in to a perforated 
sort of basin, which is picked up by a man 
from another room and carried away. 

We have during all this time been stand- 
ing in a heat which would do credit to a 
Turkish bath. 

But now, again, the conditions change 
entirely, and we are in a room filled with 
steam, and cold enough to refrigerate one. 
Here the blanks are plunged into a tank of 
cold water, which hisses and spits like a 
dozen angry snakes as the hot metal touches 
it. Frfini the cooling bath the blanks go 
to the acid bath. Into this latter tliev dis- 
appear black with the oxide of copper cling- 
ing to them. Pears 1 Soap or Sapolio, or 
whatever means to cleanliness we may em- 
ploy, would hardly accomplish the wonders 
in an hour 1 * application to the human skin, 




which a few seconds of the sul- 
phuric solution accomplishes with 
the blank of the coin. They emerge 
from their bath in every sense 
white as snow. 

The blanks are, of course, wet, 
and before they can assume the 
full honours of the complete coin 
they have to be dried. How is this 
done ? By blowing on them with 
a bellows ? By wiping each blank 
separately with a cloth ? By 
placing them in front of a fire or 
even in the oven again ? No. 
They are simply emptied into a 
revolving box containing beech - 
wnod sawdust, A turn a bruit in 
this, and they and the sawdust are 
emptied into a sieve, from which 
the sawdust escapes with a little 
shaking, The sawdust is dried on 
a hot slab or bench, and is used 
again \ the blanks are ready for 
the Press or Die room* 

In the illustration of this room the man is 
standing with a handful of blanks feeding a 
small tube or shoot, from which they drop 
on to a sliding plate and are conveyed into a 
collar, as it is called. We see the piece a 
blank for the last time. Once in the collar, 
if the machinery is in motion, nothing can 
save that smooth-faced blank from becom- 
ing, in appearance at least, a coin of the 
realm. The blank rests on a die and beneath 
a die, The latter descends with precision and 
force, and the blank finds itself for an instant 
in a grip more powerful than miser ever gave 
his hoard. It would, if it could, spread it- 
self <»ut to the thinnest possible substance. 
But as it seeks to escape under the pressure 
its edge comes in contact with the sides of 
the collar. These are milled or lettered, 
and whatever they contain appears on the 
coin. It is not generally known that the 
object of this milling or lettering is to pre- 
vent the clipping or debasement of the 
money. In Oueen KHzabeth'stime, and on 
to the reign of William IIL — during the 
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries — the 
operations of the clippers were very serious. 
Men made fortunes by paring a small piece 
from every coin in their possession, and even 
the death penalty failed to check the eviL 
A vear or two before the beginning of the 
eighteenth century a mill, worked by horses, 
was started in the Tower of London to re- 
place the old system of making money by 
the hand- wielded hammer. The edge of 
the coin w r as made to bear an inscription , 

Digitized by GOOgle 


and the operations of the clipper were 
rendered practically impossible. Even to- 
day offences in connection with the currency 
are numerous* In i88q no persons were 
convicted out of IQ4 charged with issuing 
counterfeit coins, having them in their 
possession, or actually making them. The 
more ingenious the device on the coin pro- 
duced by *the Imperial mint, the less likely 
is d counterfeit to pass muster for long. 

The coin leaves the Press-room com- 
plete, and has to pass only one other ordeal, 
that T namely, of the Weighing-room. Here 
it is placed on a wonderful automatic 
balance, If it is too light it falls into a 
drawer on one side, if correct into a drawer 
in the centre, if too heavy into a drawer on 
the other side* The average of coins which 
are either ton heavv or ton light, and con- 
sequently have to be returned to the melt- 
ing pot t is f owing to the smalliu:» uf 
the " remedy " or margin of weight allowed, 
as much as 13 per cent. 

There are thirty of these little machines 
employed, and their workmanship may be 
judged by the fact that each one costs 
£300. Bronze coins are not subjected to 
this severe test, but are weighed in bulk in 
a huge scale. Every year there is what 
is called "The Trial of the Pyx'-— the 




pyx being the chest containing sample 
coins, A coin is taken, without preference, 
from every u journey weight f ' of gold, a 
"journey weight " being 15 lb, troy, or 701 
sovereigns, or 1402 half sovereigns. The 
work of leering is performed by a jury, 
composed of freemen of the Goldsmiths* 
Company in the pre- 
sence of the Queen's 
Remembrancer, and 
the report of the jury 
is laid before the 
Treasury. The yearly 
verdict shows how 
wonderfully and uni- 
formly accurate the 
standard of fineness 
has remained, averag- 
ing, as it did in 
1 88 g f according to the 
Deputy Master's Re- 
port, 916*657, the pre- 
cise standard being 
qi6-6. As regards 
silver, the English 
standard of 925 is, 
with the exception of 
certain corns, averag- 
ing 945 in the Nether- 
lands, the highest in 
the world, the average 
in France being ^}^ 
and in Germany and 
the United States, goo. 

The Deputy Master's Report for ]SSq 
was rendered especially interesting from the 
fact that it was the twentieth issued under 
the present system of Mint administration. 

!t was only in 1870 that the Mastership of 
he Mint ceased to be a separate' office, and 
the Chancellor of the Exchequer became 
ex officio Master, with the Deputy Master as 
principal executive officer. The Mint was 
removed to its present site from the Tower 
of London in 1810. With the increases of 
its labours, the building* afforded quite in- 
sufficient accommodation, and from 1S7 1 to 
1 88 1 several Bills were introduced into the 
House of Commons with a view to acquiring 
a new site on the Thames Embankment. 
The governor of the Rank of England, 
however, having in 1 HH 1 declared that no 
inconvenience would arise if all gold coinage 
were suspended for a year, it was deter- 
mined to improve the existing structure. 
'i"he changes were commenced on February 
1, 1882, and ended early in the following 
December. The result has been to place 
the department in a position ta meet almost 



any demands which may be made upon it. 
The machinery was nearly all renewed, and 
the arrangements now admit of the simul- 
taneous coinage of two metals. During 
July, 1889, the producing capabilities of the 
Mint were put to the test, and one million 
perfect sovereigns were struck and issued 
in a week. The coin- 
age in that year of 
^"9,746,538, to which 
previous reference has 
been made T was nearly 
four times the average 
of the previous ten 
years. Even this enor- 
mous sum does not 
represent the whole of 
the coinage operations 
of the country iu 1 889. 
A considerable por- 
tion of the Colonial 
coins required were 
turned out by a firm 
formerly known as 
Ralph Heaton & Sons T 
but now called* 4 The 
Mint, Birmingham, 
Limited." * Messrs, 
Heaton were for many 
years a sort of Imperial 
Mint Auxiliary. The 
idea once got abroad 
that all bronze coins 
stamped with the 
letter u H '* were counterfeit, whereas the 
initial simply denoted that iheir manufac- 
ture had been entrusted to Messrs. Heal on. 
The Mint, Birmingham, does most of the 
coinage for small foreign States which look 
to England to convert their ingots to 

The Imperial Mint, in the words of so 
many company prospectuses, is a going 
concern. It levies a seigniorage which 
brings in a handsome revenue. This seig- 
niorage was abolished by Charles IL, but 
restored by an Act of George IIL T which 
required every pound of silver to be coined 
into 66 shillings instead of 62 — the extra 
four shillings to go to defray the expenses 
of the establishment. During five out of 
the 18 years, 1872 to 1 8Ho t the Mint was 
worked at a loss ; but, taking the whole 18 
years, the average net profit was as much 

* The Imperial Mint supplies the whole Fmpire 
with coinage, except Australasia, which is supplied, 
largely by mints in Sydney and Melbourne, and India, 
which has mints iu UiLuvia a,ji.<l Bombay, 




as ^"83,724, The profit made in 1889 
amounted to no less than ^780,691 12s. $d* 
What the record for i8qo will be it is too 
early yet to know, but i88q will, in every 
respect, take a lot of beating. 

The Mint does not confine itself to the 
production of coins, but strikes thousands 
of medals every year for the War Office, 
the Board of Trade, the University of 
London, the Royal and other Societies 
It may be remembered that Pope addressed 
some admirable lines to Addison a propos 
of one of his dialogues, on the historic 
virtues of the medal. He pictures all the 

glories and triumphs of the Imperial 
ambition of Rome shrunk into a coin. 4i A 
narrow orb each conquest keeps/* he says, 
and he demands when Britain shall 
ik in living medals see her wars enrolled," 
and '* vanquished realms supply recording 
gold." The historian must always bear 
grateful testimony to the assistance derivable 
from the metallic tokens of a country, 
no matter whether they show " a siflall 
Euphrates/* or merely an inscription^ and 
the head of the sovereign. They art 
imperishable witnesses in the cause of 
accuracy and truth. 


by Google 

Original from 


From the Frknch of Jules Claretie* 

[JULES ClAKETIE was born at Limoges, in 1S40, and is still a well known figure in the literary world of 
Taris. No man is more prolific ; histories novels, articles, short stories, pla} r s, pour without cessation from his 
pen + Jules Claretie is a man of the most varied gifts. His best known achievement is his " History of iho 
Revolution/ 1 in five volumes — a monumental uork. But there are those (and we confess ourselves anions 
them) who would rather be trie author of the lovely little story of child- life which w r e lay before our readers 
under the title of " Slap- Bang."] 


HE little boy lay pale and list- 
less in his small white cot, 
gazing, with eyes enlarged by 
fever, straight before him, 
with the strange fixity of ill- 
ness which seems to see 

already more than is visible to living eyes + 

His mother, sitting at the bottom of the 

bed, biting her fingers to keep back a cry, 

noted how the symptoms deepened on the 

ghostly little face ; while his father, a 

>lrong workman, 

brushed away his 

burning tears. 
The day was 

breaking ; a calm, 

clear, lovely day 

of June. The 

light began to 

^tcal into the 

poor apartment 

where little 

Francis, the son 

of Jacques and 

Madeline Le- 

grand, lay very 

near deaths 

door. He was 

seven years old ; 

three weeks ago, 

a fair - haired, 

rosy, little boy, as 

happy as a bird. 

But one night, 

when he came 

h o m e fro ni 

school, his head 

was giddy and 

his hands were 

burning. Ever 

since he had lain 

there in his cot. 

To-night he did not wander in his mind ; 

but for two days his strange listlessness had 

alarmed the doctor. He lay there sad and 

quiet, as if at seven years old he was already 

Digitized by GoOg I C 

tired of life; rolling his head upon the bol- 
ster, his thin lips never smiling, his eves 
staring at one knew not what. Me would 
take nothing — neither medicine, syrup, nor 

"Is there anything that you would like ? " 
they asked him, 

u No f " he answered, "nothing.' 1 

"This must be remedied/* the doctor 

said. "This torpor is alarming. You are 

his parents, and you know him best. Try to 

discover what will interest and amuse him.'* 

And the doctor 
went away. 

To amuse him ! 
True, they knew 
him well, their 
little Francis. 
They knew how 
it delighted him, 
when he wa.s well, 
to go into the 
fields, and to come 
home, loaded with 
white hawthorn 
blossoms, riding 
on his father *s 
shoulde rs, 
Jacques had al- 
ready bought him 
gilded soldiers, 
figures, * k Chinese 
shadows,'* to be 
shown upon a 
screen. He placed 
them on the sick 
child's bed, made 
them dance be- 
fore his eyes, and, 
scarcely able to 
keep back his 
tears, strove to 


make him laugh. 

u Look, there is the Broken Bridge, 

Tra-la-la! And there is a general. You 

saw one once at Boulogne Wood, don't yuu 

remember? ,--Ifj jfpui ilpiik your medicine 




like a good boy, I will buy you a real one, 
with a cloth tunic and gold epaulettes. 
Would you like to have a general ? " 

" No," said the sick child, his voice dry 
with fever. 

44 Would you like a pistol and bullets, or 
a crossbow ? " 

44 No," replied the little voice, decisively. 

And so it was with everything — even with 
balloons and jumping-jacks. Still, while the 
parents looked at each other in despair, the 
little voice responded, " No ! No ! No ! " 

44 But what is there you would like, then, 
darling ? " said his mother. " Come, whisper 
to me — to mamma." And she laid her 
cheek beside him on the pillow. 

The sick boy raised himself in bed, arid, 
throwing out his eager hands towards some 
unseen object, cried out, as in command and 
in entreaty, u I want Slap-bang ! " 


u Slap-bang ! " 

The poor mother looked at her husband 
with a frightened glance. What was the 
little fellow saying ? Was the terrible deli- 
rium coming back again ? 41 Slap-bang ! " 
She knew not what that signified. She was 
frightened at the strangeness of the words, 
which now the sick boy, with the perver-. 
sity of illness — as if, having screwed his 
courage up to put his dream in words, he 
was resolved to speak of nothing else — re- 
peated without ceasing : — 

44 Slap-bang ! I want Slap-bang ! " 

44 What does he mean?" she said, dis- 
tractedly, grasping her husband's hand. 
44 Oh, he is lost!" 

But Jacques' rough face wore a smile of 
wonder and relief, like that of one condemned 
to death who sees a chance of liberty. 

Slap-bang ! He remembered well the 
morning of Whit-Monday, when he had 
taken Francis to the circus. He could hear 
still the child's delighted laughter, when the 
clown — the beautiful clown, all be-starred 
with golden spangles, and with a huge 
many-coloured butterfly glittering on the 
back of his black costume — skipped across 
the track, tripped up the riding-master by 
the heels, took a walk upon his hands, or 
threw up to the gas-light the soft felt caps, 
which he dexterously caught upon his skull, 
where, one by one, they formed a pyramid ; 
while at every trick and every jest, his large 
droll face expanding with a smile, he uttered 
the same catch -word, sometimes to a roll of 
music from the band, u Slap-bang ! " And 

by L^OOgle 

every time he uttered it the audience roared 
and the little fellow shouted with delight. 

Slap-bang ! It was this Slap-bang, the 
circus clown, he who kept half the city 
laughing, whom little Francis wished to see, 
and whom, alas ! he could not see as he lay 
pale and feeble in his little bed. 

That night Jacques brought the child a 
jointed clown, ablaze with spangles, which 
he had bought at a high price. Four days' 
wages would not pay for it ; but he would 
willingly have given the price of a year's 
labour, could he have brought a smile to the 
thin lips of the sick boy. 

The child looked for a moment at the 
toy which sparkled on the bed-quilt. Then 
he said, sadly, " That is not Slap-bang. I 
want to see Slap-bang ! " 

If only Jacques could have wrapped him 
in the bed-clothes, borne him to the circus, 
shown him the clown dancing under the 
blazing gas-lights, and said, "Look there!" 

But Jacques did better still. He went to 
the circus, obtained the clown's address, and 
then, with legs tottering with nervousness 
and agitation, climbed slowly up the stairs 
which led to the great man's apartment. It 
was a bold task to undertake ! Yet actors, 
after all, go sometimes to recite or sing at 
rich men's houses. Who knew but that the 
clown, at any price he liked, would consent 
to go to say good-day to little Francis ? If 
so, what matter his reception ? 

But was this Slap-bang, this charming 
person, called Monsieur Moreno, who 
received him in his study like a doctor, 
in the midst of books and pictures, and all 
the luxury of art ! Jacques looked at him, 
and could not recognise the clown. He 
turned and twisted his felt hat between his 
fingers. The other waited. At last the 
poor fellow began to stammer out excuses : 
4i It was unpardonable — a thing unheard of 
— that he had come to ask ;• but the fact 
was, it was about his little boy— such a 
pretty little boy, sir ! and so clever ! Al- 
ways first in his class — except in arithmetic, 
which he did not understand. A dreamy 
little chap — too dreamy — as you may see 
— Jacques stopped and stammered ; then 
screwing up his courage he continued with 
a rush — u as you may see by the fact that he 
wants to see you, that he thinks of nothing 
else, that you are before him always, like a 
star which he has set his mind on " 

Jacques stopped. Great beads stood on 
his forehead and his face was very pale. He 
dared not look at the clown, whose eyes 
were fixed upon him. What had he dared 




to ask the great Slap-bang ? What if the 
latter took him for a madman, and showed 
him to the door ? 

u Where do you live ? " demanded Slap- 

u Oh! close by. The Rue des Abbesses ! " 
11 Come ! " said the other ; il the little 
fellow wants to see Slap-bang — well, he 
s If all see him. 1 ' 


Whkn the door opened before the clown t 
Jacques cried out joyfully T " Cheer up, 
Francis ! Here is Slap-bang. '* 

The child's face beamed with expectation. 
He raised himself upon his mother's arm, 
and turned his head towards the two men 
as they entered. Who was the gentleman 
in an overcoat beside his father * who 
smiled good-naturedly, but whom he did 
not know ? tl Slap-bang/* they told him. 
It wu- all in vain. His head fell slowly 
back upon the pillow, and his great sad 
blue eyes seemed to look out again be- 
yond the narrow chamber walls, ixy search, 
unceasing search, of the spangles and the 
butterfly of the Slap-bang of his dreams. 

li No, n he said, in a voice which sounded 
inconsolable ; u no ; this is not Slap-bang ! ^ 

The clown, standing by the little bed t 
looked gravely down upon the child with 
a regard of infinite kind-heartedness. He 
shook his head, and looking at the anxious 
father and the mother in her agony, said 

smiling, " He is right. This is not Slap- 
bang. 1 ' And he left the room, 

" I shall not see him ; I shall never see 
him again/* said the child, softly. 

Bat all at once — half an hour had not 
elapsed since the clown had disappeared— 
the door was sharply opened, and behold, 
in his black spangled tunic, the yellow tuft 
upon his head, the golden butterfly upon 
his breast and back, a large smile opening 
his mouth like a money-box, his face white 
with flour, Slap-bang, the true Slap-bang, 
the Slap- bang of the circus, burst into view. 
And in his little white cot, with the joy of 
life in his eyes, laughing, crying, happy, 
saved, the little fellow clapped his feeble 
hands, and, with the recovered gaiety of 
seven years old, cried out : 

41 Bravo ! Bravo, Slap-bang ! It is he 
this time ! This is Slap-bang ! Long live 
Slap-bang ! Bravo ! ,T 


Whkn the doctor called that day, he found, 
sitting beside the little patient's pillow, a 
white-faced clown, who kept him in a con- 
stant ripple of laughter, and who was 
observing, a^ he stirred a lump of sugar at 
the bottom of a glass of cooling drink-: 

" You know, Francis, if you do not drink 
your medicine, you will never see Slap- 
bang again/' 

And the child drank up the draught* 

" Is It not good ? ,? 

"bkayd slap-bam^! 


Original from 


i S3 

" Very good. Thank you, Slap-bang." Rue des Abbesses; a man descended, wrapped 
"Doctor," said the down to the physician, in a greatcoat with the collar turned up to 

his cars* and underneath arrayed 
as for the circus, with his gay 
visage white with flour. 

**What do 1 owe you, 
sir?' 1 said Jacques to the 
good clown, on the day 
when Francis left the house 
for the first time- " For I 
really owe you everything ! " 

l H.WK VOL', MAr-l..\M ( . 

" do not be jealous, but it seems to me that 
my tomfooleries have done more good than 
your prescriptions." 

The poor parents were both crying ; but 
this time it was with joy. 

From that time till little Francis was on 
foot again, a carriage pulled up every day 
before the lodging of the workman in the 

The clown extended to the parents his 
two hands, huge as those of Hercules : 

' k A shake of the hand," he said. Then, 
kissing the little boy on both his rosy 
cheeks, he added, laughing, u And per- 
mission to inscribe on my visiting-cards, 
4 Slap-bang, doctor -acrobat, physician in 
ordinary to little Francis ! ' w 

by Google 


Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives. 

Frpm u] 



Born i8o?i* 

X I SG t at the age of four* had 
bis portrait taken by a minia- 
ture-painter* who depicted 
him upon a cliff above the 
m.;l absorbed in listening to 
the murmur of a shell. This most interest- 
ing picture of the future Cardinal, togelher 
with companion portraits of his little 
brothers and sisters, long hung upon the 
wall of the library of his father's house at 
Totteridge, But one night the house was 
broken into by a gang of burglars, and, 
among other valuables, the miniatures were 
carried off. The vexation of the family 
was extreme ; but by a curious freak of 
fortune the portraits were at length dis- 
covered in an old curiosity shop in London, 
and, after years of absence, resumed their 
old position on the library wall The 
second of our portraits shows the future 
Cardinal as Archdeacon of Chichester, at a 
time when he was universally regarded as 
one of the strongest pillars of the English 
Church, Alas for human foresight ! Seven 
years later, on Passion Sundav, 1851, he 
felt himself compelled to make the great 
renunciation, and laid before the footstool 
of the Pope the costly offering of such a 
character as in its blend of saintly life, of 

Ffj m it / l h*Av. Gi" J 

At.E Bl. 

L M *«ri, EUiott £ Fry, 

by K; 


strength of intellect, of eloquence alike of 
tongue and pen, and of unrivalled know- 
ledge of the world, has rarely been bestowed 
on any of the sons of men + 

For these portraits we are indebted to the 
courtesy of Cardinal Manning, of Mr. Wil- 
fred Meynell, and of Messrs, Henry Graves 
& Co., Pall Mali 

Original from 




peared." At eight and -forty (as in 
our second portrait) he had' recently 
been elected Rede Lecturer at Cam- 
bridge, and was in the height of 
his great combat with the world he 
lire* in — a world which, in his eyes, 
is given up almost beyond redemption 
to canters, money-grubbers, inventors 
of improved machinery, and every 
kind of charlatan. In volume after 
volume, he was putting forth — in the 
midst of much which reason found 
fantastic — bursts of satire 
fierce as Juvenal's, and word- 
pictures more gorgeous than 
the tints of Turner, conveyed 
in that inimitable style which 
is as strong and sweet 
as Shelley's verse. In 
these latter days (as 
our last portrait shows 
lini) Mr. Ruskin, like 

AGE 43. 
Fmr>* a Pfa>to. hv 


the age n 
Mr. Ruskin, 

Christ Church, Oxford, had 
just won the Newdigate prize 
poem* Two years later the 
first volume of u Modern 
Painters '' showed that a new poet had in- 
deed arisen, though a poet who was destined 
nnt to ea^t his thoughts in verse, but in 
h thc other harmony of prose." At eight- 
and-thirty "Stones of Venice tJ had ap- 

Digitized by GoOglC 

J-'rum a Vhniu. h$\ 

A<JL 63* 

LJfMiri. EUtolt & pry. 

a prophet in a hermitage, has become 

more and more of a recluse, though now 

and then his voice is still audible in a 

wrathful letter to the papers, like a voice 

heard crying in the wilderness that alt 

is lost 

Original from 




AG* 45- 

From PkoU>< by Cwn*ron of a I hinting by ft F. WaiU t M.A* 

■ - ' 

from B» Lngraviny by IV. WalAcr, 
AL.E tfS, 


Bonn 1800. 



HESE portraits represent 
Mr. Gladstone at three 
important epochs in his 
career, At twenty-eight 
he was the henchman of 
Sir Kobert Peel, and it 
was at this time that Macaulay de- 
scribed him as ll the rising hope of the 
stern, unbending Tories.*' He had just 
produced his work on i( Church atid 
State," which attracted a great deal of 
attention. Our second portrait shows 
what he was like at the time when, as 
Chancellor of the Exchequer, he put forth 
the first of the long series of his famous 
Budgets. The third picture is the one 
which is now so familiar, representing the 
illustrious statesman as he is at the present 
time. It will be observed that the high 
collars which are inseparable from every 

From a Photo, tyr) 

aol So* 

[EUiotif Fr*. 




picture of Mr, Gladstone, whether serious 
or comic, have been favourites with him 
all his life. Like Peel, Palmerston, and 
Beacon afield, he is a striking instance of the 
fact that the toils and cares of responsible 
statesmanship seem with some constitutions 
to lend to vigorous old age, 




From ft Photo, by) A<;t J 8. 

[OjjJuj, Jvy*ffi. 

From a. I'tuttt. hf] 

AGE 33. 





HIS page enables one to 
trace the blooming of 
the Jersey Lily from the 
bud to the full flower ; 
from the lovely Miss Le 
Breton, the daughter of 
the Dean, to the newly-married bride, 
and from the belle of London drawing- 
rooms to the charming actress who 
ha.s won on both sides of the world 
applause which is not gained by loveliness 
alone T even when, like Mrs. Langtry's, it is 
of that rare kind, statuesque yet blooming, 

Digitized by Google 

f'i-itrn tt Photo, iff/) 

I'REStftfT DAV. 

[LQtaitntt*, DubUn, 

which is adapted equally to represent the 
chiselled grace of Galatea, or the burning 
beauty of the Oueen of E^ypt. 






1 ■ r ' ■'■"Jh r- 

/>vjrri rt /'Atfto* ^c] 

AGE 33, 

[Jf «*»-«. £Ufou^/ , V?/ 

Avm a VUt^K by\ 

AuK 4ru 

[ fitirrnwh 

From a Phota. hy\ 

.■i- :■ 44, 

[lf*Mn. CII«auf #!rv. 

Born 1844, 

R. HARE, as most people 
have the pleasure of knowing 
from experience, is the finest 
actor of old men at present 
on the stage— if not, indeed, 
the finest ever seen. It seems 
strange, as we regard the strong young 

Digitized by CiOOglC 

face of our fir^t portrait, that Mr, 
Hare was then, or very little later, 
acting Sir Peter Teazle to the very 
life. Mr. Hare as an old man is old 
all over. Yet no two of his old 
men are like each other ; no charac- 
ters bear less resemblance than 
Lord Kilt la re in tl A Quiet 
Rubber," and Rcnjtimin (iultJfinch 
in " A Pair of Spectacles, 1 '" but 
which is the most life-like it is 
difficult to say. Mr. Hare, indeed, 
prefers his present part to any of 
his roles* as may be learnt, with 
other facts of interest, by a reference 
to page* 166 of this number ; and 
certainly a more delightful piece of 
character-acting it is impossible to 
conceive than that which represents 
the dear old gentleman whose faith 
in wallers, bootmakers, butlers, 
brothers, friends, and wives, is so 
rudely shaken and m happily 
restored. At his present age, of 
which our last portrait is a speaking 
likeness, Mr. Hare is a familiar figure, 
not only on the stage, but on horseback 
in the Row, or, more delightful still to 
his acquaintances, talking from an easy- 
chair as no one but himself can talk, or 
rising after dinner to make one of his 
inimitable speeches. 

For permission to reproduce these 
portraits we have to thank the courtesy of 
Mr. Hare. 0rjgjna| . from 




ACE 33. 
From a Phfitw&ph bp W. Kfith. Lirtrpofit. 

JVrtiw a Pfiitf n^Ajd fry Ittftdow * Grot*. 

*>tfm n I'kotQffTajih by IVaiArr % Son*, 
AGS 27, 


1Y the kindness of Mr, and 
Mrs, Bancroft we arc able to 
present our readers with their 
portraits at an a^e when they 
had not yet met each other 
— when Marie Wilton was 
the life and soul of the burlesques at the 

by Google 

M Strand " Theatre, and when Mr. Bancroft 
was still studying in the provinces the art 
with which he was to charm the audiences 
of the ^ Prince of Wales's/' In our second 
portraits Marie Wilton was still Marie 
Wilton t but was on the eve of becoming 
Mrs, Bancroft ; and finally, in the centre, 
we have them both as at the present day. 

Original from 



style and strength of logic which 
makes him both the most redoubtable 
antagonist in the literary arena, and 
the most popular exponent of the 
discoveries of science. Professor 
Huxley *s health, never of the very 
best, has Utterly compelled him to 
withdraw entirely from the active 
duties of the many posts which he has 
held ; but the magazine articles which 

from % 

AGE Jl* 


Fnm 4 Fhotoffraph Ly] age 45. [Jfc*ir* T EUk>u £ Frn* 


Bosh 1825. 

T is, unfortunately, impossible 
to obtain a portrait of Pro- 
fessor Huxley in the days 
when he was not yet a pro- 
fessor — when he was catching 
sticklebacks and chasing but- 
terflies at his father's school at Ealing — for 
at thirty-one, the age at which his earliest 
photograph was taken r he was already a 
professor of two sciences — of Natural His- 
tory at the Royal School of Mines, and of 
Physiology at the Royal Institute. As 
assistant-surgeon to H.M.S. Rattlesnake he 
had spent three years in studying natural 
history off the Australian coasts, and had 
written out the record of his observa- 
tions in the earliest of his books. The 
Admiralty refused to pay a penny of the 
publishing expenses ; the young assistant- 
surgeon's salary was seven -and-sixpence a 
clay ; and the volume only saw the light 
some five years later, when it was issued by 
the Ray Society. But, from the days of 
his first fight with fortune, Professor Hux- 
ley's fame rose steadily, and by the time at 
which our second portrait shows him he 
had been President of the British Associa- 
tion, and had developed that limpidity of 

Digitized by G< 

/Wim o Photograph by] age £4* [ Jf'«r#. KUintl ** Fry* 

he occasionally puts forth show all his early 
faculties as strong as ever. 

For the above interesting early photo- 
graph we are indebted to the kindness of 
Professor and Mrs, Huxley. 




her baby lip^ issued a trill so 
long-sustained and so pure of 
intonation, that the whole 
company of artist* applauded 
with surprise and rapture. The 
appearance of Adeliua was 
much what would be imagined 
—always tiny for her age, but 
lithe and straight, with her 
thick, black locks braided on 
either side of her face, her eyes 
keen as a hawk's, whilst her 
clear brow, mobile mouth, and 
determined chin each in uirn 
emphasised the exprt>sioii with 
which she was animated at the 
moment. The street arabs of 
New York nicknamed her ll the 
little Chinee girl," because of 
her big, black eyes and some- 
what yellow skin, when she 
used to run up and down 
Broadway bowling her hoop* 
Of her phenomenal success, 
when she appeared as a prima- 
donua of seven summers at 
Niblo's Garden in New York, 
it would be idle to repeat an 
oft-told tale. Rut we are for- 
tunately able to reproduce a 
photograph of the little prima- 
donna ; for which, as well as 
for the notes above, we are in- 
debted to the kind ne>sof a friend 
of the great singer. The signa- 
ture across the photograph is 
Adelina Patti's own. 

From a Pfiot&yraphf] 

M» ?. 

[AVm- York. 


F ever an artist was M cradled 
in song," that artist was 
Adelina PattL Before she 
could utter a word she could 
hum every air she had heard 
her mother rehearsing for the 
opera. Her musical precocity was so extra- 
ordinary that she could detect the least 
falsity of intonation in any vocal perform- 
ance, and on one occasion when she had 
been admitted behind the scenes to the 
dress rehearsal of a new opera in New York, 
she managed to startle the leading lady- — a 
singer of some reputation — very consider- 
ably, by running up to her and exclaiming, 
in her little shrill Yankee accent, " I guess 
you don't know the proper way to trill, 
you rest too long on the first note. Listen 
to me, and try to do it as I do ! " And from 

Digitized by G< 


!>*« a Fhatoqrapk fry) i>pe*emt DAY* [.toefff, EliioH + Frv. 



Letters from Artists on Ladies Dress. 

UESTIONS of Fashion are, 
perhaps, more open to debate 
and difference of opinion than 
any others. But those who 
ridicule the commands of 
Fashion, as well as those who 
worship them, must find an equal interest 
in the views of the best judges of what is 
beautiful and what is ugly — that is to say, 
of artists. In this belief, we have asked a 
number of our leading painters to state 
their views upon the subject, in the form of 
a reply to the succeeding questions : — 

" What is your opinion of the present 
style of ladies 1 dress ? What are its chief 
defects, and what its merits, from an artist's 
point of view ? What is your ideal of a 
beautiful woman, beautifully dressed ? " 

Our invitation has been most cordially 
responded to, and we are now in a position 
to publish the replies received. 

Sir Frederic Leighton. 

Ladies, who are, of course, the keenest 
votaries of fashion, will be delighted, and 
we think surprised, to find Sir Frederick 
Leighton on their side. 

Hotel Royal, Rome. 

Dear Sir, — Whatever may be the criti- 
cisms to which the dress of a lady in our 
day is open, there is a vast amount of non- 
sense talked about it. Titian and Velas- 
quez would probably have been very happy 
to paint it. — Believe me, dear Sir, yours 
faithfully, Frederic Leighton. 

Mr. G. F. Watts, R.A. 

Little Holland House, 

Kensington, W. 
Dear Sir, — I don't know that the present 
style of " ladies' dress," when not pushed 
to extremes and exaggerations, can be very 
much objected to. Mr. du Maurier, in 
Punchy is able, without violating truth, to 
make it look very graceful and charming. 
Such portions as are easily put on and taken 
off need not be soberly, much less severely, 
criticised. It is natural, and even right, 
that considerable elasticity should be claimed 
by fashion — fancy and trade are encouraged. 
All, however, that is calculated to effect per- 
manent inj ury to health must be very severely 
condemned. Tight lacing, pointed shoes, 
and high heels — these, unless the fashion 
changes (which, being very ugly, it probably 

will not), leave permanent disastrous results. 
No lady can be really well and beautifully 
dressed if what she wears outrages Nature s 
intentions in the structure of the human 
frame. Such outrages are : a waist like a 
stove pipe, shoes that compress the toes 
into a crumpled mass of deformity, 
and, it might even be added, gloves that 
confine the hand till it looks little better 
than a fin — but as this inflicts no permanent 
injury, it does not matter — but the foot is 
irredeemably ruined, to the destruction of 
spring and grace in movement, and to no 
inconsiderable injury to health. It is a 
very common thing to hear a lady say, 
44 The foot is an ugly thing ! " Her shape- 
less shoe has told her this ; but it will be 
seen how untrue it is if one looks at a cast 
from the foot of an Indian woman, or the 
drawing of a foot by Sir Frederic Leigh- 
ton. No doubt the crumpled clump of 
deformity common from wearing modern 
abominations, is a thing an ancient Greek 
would have shuddered at ; and this is to be 
the more lamented as the modern young 
lady is often of splendid growth and form, 
such as probably the ancient Greek never 

Perhaps, the real test of the highest taste 
in dress would be, whether it could be put 
into sculpture ; but that would be too rigid 
a rule. One may say, however, that no 
lady can be well dressed who, for the sake 
of tasteless vanity, decks herself in the spoils 
of the most beautiful of created creatures, 
cruelly indifferent to such destruction ; or 
sticks reptiles and repulsive insects about her. 

To your question, " What is your ideal of 
a beautiful woman ? " I would answer, That 
form which, tall or short, or of light or 
dark colour, most emphasises human charac- 
teristics furthest removed from suggestions 
of the inferior creatures — a principle so well 
understood and acted upon by the great 
Greek artists. How beautiful when, in the 
words of Ruskin, " Fairest, because purest 
and thoughtfullest, trained in all high know- 
ledge, as in all courteous art — in dance, in 
song, in sweet wit, in lofty learning, in 
loftier courage, in loftiest love— able alike 
to cheer, to enchant, or save the souls of 

This would, I think, do for an ideal. — Very 
truly yours, G. F. Watts. 

In a second letter Mr. Watts adds : — 


ladies; dress. 


" It is impossible that \vc should be un- 
affected by, the impressions the mind re- 
ceives through the medium of dress ; we 
ought not to be so. The indifference in 
modern times to grace and harmony in 
dress is a strong reason for concluding that 
pleasure in what is beautiful — or, which 
may sometime* be accepted as an equiva- 
lent, interesting — a sense so strong in 
former agt^, is extinct. 

i4 I think I said that it was more easy to 
say what should not be, than what should be. 
Good taste must be outraged when defor- 
mity is suggested j but even that may be 
passed over when such things are perfectly 
extraneous. When they tend to produce 
permanent deformity, it is a pity they can- 
not be suppressed by law, as unquestionably 
the race suffers. No healthy, well-made 
young girl ought to be allowed to wear 
stays compressing the ribs ; after thirty, 
there may be reasons ; and by that time 
nature would have asserted herself, and no 
great harm would be done. But as long as 
men have the degraded taste to prefer a 
pipe to the beautiful flexible line, which 
might always, with the greatest delicacy, be 

evident, there can 
be no hope. Again, 

this thing is hardly 

short of wicked. 

Put together, you have this— uncommonly 

like a cloven hoof, I wish the ladies joy 

of it!" 

Mr. G. D. Lfsltf, R.A. 

Riverside, Wallingford, 
Dear Sir, — I alluded to the subject of 
ladies 1 dress in an address I delivered at 
Southampton on Art. It is a short allusion, 
but if you care to publish it I have no 
objection, .and could send you a copy. — I 
am, dear Sir, yours faithfully, 

G. D. Leslie, 

The passage runs as follows : — 
" The results of female art education are 
not quite satisfactory in the matter of dress, 
as here woman is so apt t by nature, to 
become the slave of fashion ; but still I 
think much can be done by right-minded 
girls, by careful selection and wholesome 
reform in such things as tight -lacing and 


high heels. I care not for the so-called 
high art school of millinery. Dresses that 
look like bed-gowns of green serge, and 
little girls smothered in Kate Greenaway 
fiopperty hats, seem to me, however 
picturesque intrinsically, in bad taste from 
their eccentricity. A young lady of real 
taste can always find amidst the prevailing 
fashions some that suit her individuality; 
and those that have this taste invariably 
seem to do so." 

Hon*. John Collier. 
4, Marlborough Place, N.W. 

Sir, — I should hardly venture to express 
an opinion on the delicate subject of modern 
female dress, were it not that in my double 
capacity of husband and portrait-painter I 
have been obliged to devote a great deal of 
attention to it. 

I think the outlook is, on the whole, en- 
couraging, To begin with, there is much 
greater variety of style and freedom of choice 
than has obtained for a very long time. 
Indeed, It is probable that in no country or 
period since dress was invented has there 

a 5 ,igh t -Ud T g ; 

been such a wide scope for individual taste 
as in England at the present day. 

This is an enormous ad vantage, for women 
vary so ^|^rt^dh-i laard and fast st y le > 

X t>_| 




v ' ! //J 

however good in itself, is certain to be un- 
suitable to at least half the sex. It is true 
that this freedom of choice is not always 
wisely exercised, but it is a subject to which 
women devote so much time and thought 
that they are mostly good judges in the 

Then, again, there is at present a happy 
absence of those monstrosities that have first 
offended, and then corrupted, our ideal of 
feminine form ; the crinoline has long dis- 
appeared, and at length the bustle— perhaps 
the most odious of all these misshapements 
— has followed suit. Of course they may 
both re-appear, and probably will do so ; 
but freedom of choice is now so firmly 
established, that no one wilt be considered 
eccentric or unwomanly for refusing to 
adopt them. 

We may take it once for all that the 
extreme tyranny of fashion is broken down 
— a glorious triumph that wo mainly owe 
to the much-abused aesthetic movement. 

But although much has been achieved, 
much still remains to be done. There arc 
two deadly sins in modern female dress 
which seem to defy all considerations of 
beauty and convenience* Tight waists and 
high heels are still so common that the 
courageous protests of the emancipated pass 
almost unnoticed. 

My own opinion is that female dress will 
never be thoroughly satisfactory until wo- 
men have realised that they have no waists. 
Nature has not endowed them with waists, 
which are artificial forms produced by 
compressing the body. 

This seeming paradox is easily proved by 
considering that the waist of woman has 
been placed by fashion in every conceivable 
position, from under the armpits to half- 
way down the hips. Obviously it cannot 
correspond to any natural formation, or it 
could not wander about in this extraordinary 

Of course, the Greek lady never supposed 
she had a waist. She often, for the sake of 
convenience, tied a string round her body, 
but only just tightly enough to keep her 
clothes in place, and then nearly always let 
some folds of the drapery fall over and hide 
the unsightly line (Fig. 1). If there must be 
a waist, I distinctly prefer the one placed 
under the armpits, in the fashion of the 
beginning of this century, for it is physically 
impossible to tie it so tightly as to much 
alter the form, and having the division high 
up tends to minimise the most common 
defect of the English female figure, a want 
of length in the leg (Fig 2). 

Of course, it is this very want of length 

Originai ( |r^m 



that has led to the high heels, but the 
remedy is worse than the disease, It does 
not really give the impression of long- 
leggedness, and it does alter and spoil the 
whole carriage of the body. 

The high heels also help to deform the 
feet by pressing the toes forward into the 
pointed ends of those terrible boots that 
are another disgrace to our civilisation* 
Painters and sculptors have good cause to 
know that the modern female foot is a 
hideous object — our vitiated taste has be- 
come accustomed to it when clothed, but 
when seen in its naked deformity it is a 
thing to shudder at* 

It occurs to me that there are two funda- 
mental rules of dress. 

First, wherever the dress is tight it 
should show the true natural form of the 
body beneath t and should not suggest, and 
still less produce, some entirely unnatural 
and artificial form, (This rule, of course, 
only applies to tolerably good figures.) 

Secondly t where the dress is loose it 
should be allowed to fall in its own natural 
folds, and should not be gathered up into 
the horrible convolutions miscalled drapery 
by the milliners* 

FIG- 4. 

The old Greek dress fulfilled these con- 
ditions in the highest degree, and, I have no 
doubt, was the noblest form of clothing 


ever invented. All other forms of dress 
have abounded in monstrosities of one kind 
or another, but in looking over the history 
of costume one now and then conies across 

I M Ml 

j ■' - VM--BTT" 

FIG. J. 

some simple and artistic form which seems 
to have sprung up by chance, as it were, or 
as a transition between two opposite 
exaggerations. Here is a fine example 
from the early middle ages (Fig. 3). And 
here, again, is a good design from a much 
later period (Fig. 4). 

Just before the introduction of the enor- 
mous hoops in the early part of the eight- 
eenth century, which, perhaps, are the high- 
water mark of monstrosity in dress, there 
was a brief period of comparative simplicity, 
to which has been given a perhaps factitious 
charm by the genius of Watteau (Fig. 5). 

And then, again, we come to the costume 
of lSoo and the neighbouring years, to 
which I have already alluded, and which 
was, perhaps, the simplest and most grace- 
ful dress that European women have worn 
since the classical period (Fig, 6), but which 
soon, alas ! gave way to the succession of 
nightmares from which, at last, we seem to 
have awakened. 

But from many styles besides these there 
arc hints to be gathered for the benefit of 
modern dress, and, fortunately, the tolerance 




of the age enables us to pick and choose 
from any source we like. I have great 
hopes of the future of female costume 
(male costume seems, from the artistic side, 
to be past praying 
for) , but a great 
deal depends 
upon the artists. 
The average 
man is as bad as 
the average wo- 
man ; he likes 
pretty little waists 
and neat little 
feet quite as much 
as the recipient 
of his misplaced 
admiration. In- 
deed, as I think 
it is incontestable 
that women dress 
more to please 
m en than to 
please them- 
selves, we men 
arc probably more 
to blame than the 
women for the 
vagaries of female 
costume* But the 
artists have, or 
ought to have, a 
bitter taste in 
these matters 
than the outside 
public. They all 
affect to admire 
the masterpieces 
of classical art, 
and they arc, few 
of them, entirely 
ignorant of what 
the human form 
ought to be. It 
is to them that 
we must look for 
protests against 
its disfigurement. 
— I am, Sir , yours 

John Collier. 

Mr, G. H, BoughtoXj A*R.A, 

West House, 

Campden Hill-road, W. 

Dear Sii^ — The questions you send me 

regard ing my opinion of the present style 

of ladies' dress cover too large and varied a 

Held to be disposed of in a moment — that 

by Google 

is, if one could dispose of them even after 
many and many a month, let alone mo- 
ments. The one virtue of the women's 
dress of to-day is its variety and indivi- 
duality. Those 
who are really 
dressed and not 
merely cloth ed, 
have their dresses 
"created M for 
them, and they 
belong to each 
other* The fair 
and the dark, the 
lean and the re- 
verse, du not now 
bedeck them- 
selves with the 
same all pervad- 
ing tint or cut j 
whether it suits 
them well or ill, 
just because it is 
** all the go." 
Even the almost 
universal cut of 
to-day is most 
usually graceful 
and of quiet tone. 
And somehow 
girls seem to be 
of taller growth, 
and of better 
health and colour, 
and to walk 
better than ever 
before. The 
adoption of hils 
of bygone fash- 
ions is now and 
then deplorable. 
One sees queer 
jumbles of Marie 
Stuart ruffs and 
" Empire " bon- 
nets, or of any 
other period ex- 
cept of the Marie 
Stuart 1 icad -gear. 
Suppose a poor 
simple masher of 
the male kind should try some historical 
head-gear — say a cocked hat or a Charles 
IL with a wreath of feathers and lace — and 
mount a jewelled sword, as a new incident 
to his usual Piccadilly attire ? It would be 
in no worse taste than the various mixture 
of u periods " that some of the dear creatures 
of to-day startle the student of costume 

Original from 




with now and then. My ideal of "a 
beautiful woman, beautifully dressed/' is 
not yet defined. I am not very narrow- 
minded with regard to either point. From 
tlie Princess in gold and white samite, to 
the nut-brown maid with her gown of 
hodden gray and her bare feet, there are 
thousands that are good enough for me. 
The only bad ones are the pretentious and 
vulgar (dirt and fine feathers). I saw a 
little " aesthetic *' creature the other day, 
with a sad, woe-begone costume in flabby 
colours, a mop of tousled hair, a painted 
mask of a face, all in keeping, except the 
boots — " side-spring/' if you please (if any- 
thing so squashy could have a spring). 
She was only a passing vision — but enough. 
I could but repeat with Madame Roland 
under the guillotine (was it Roland ?) 
41 Liberty (and Co.), what crimes are 
committed in thy name ! " 

The subject is a fascinating one ; but 
there are limits. — Yours faithfully, 

Geo. H. Boughton, A.R.A. 

Mr. G. A. Storey, A.R.A. 

39, Broadhurst Gardens, N.\V\ 
Sir, — It is difficult to pass an opinion 
upon u ladies' dress," because its chief cha- 
racteristic seems to be that it is ever chang- 
ing. We no sooner see a really pretty 
fashion than we hear ominous rumours — 
from Paris (?) — that some abomination such 
as the crinoline is coming in again,, or the 
Gainsborough hat is to give place to the 
Pork-pie, or a small copy of the Toriodero's 
head-gear. We are told that costume indi- 
cates the phase or current of thought of the 
period and of the country in which it is 
worn ; that it becomes sumptuous in rich 
communities and in prosperous times, but is 
sad and impoverished in times of war and 
depression ; that it marks the degree of civi- 
lisation, of culture, of taste, and of wealth ; 
and, like the other fine arts, has its glorious 
periods as well as its decadence and restora- 
tion. Perhaps it reached its lowest stage of 
ugliness, in this country, some thirty or 
forty years ago, when corkscrew ringlets, 
high foreheads, flat bandeaus plastered down 
the cheeks, evening dresses cut straight 
across the collar bones, flounces and crino- 
lines, and all the other horrors that John 
Leech has so cleverly depicted in the early 
volumes of Punch were the % fashions that 
set off our types of beauty. May we then 
conclude that taste has improved since 
those days, and not only taste, but common 
sense?" At the present moment we see 

nothing outrageous to find fault with, and 
much that is pretty to admire. It would 
take up too much space to go into detail : 
to discourse on hats alone would require a 
separate letter of some pages. I should 
have to show how some set off the face and 
others do not, and how it often happens 
that the success of a hat depends very much 
upon the face that looks out from under it. 
And so with the way the hair is dressed, 
&c. ; and I need scarcely say that a pretty, 
graceful woman will make almost any cos- 
tume look well if she puts it on with taste, 
whereas there are certain other figures that 
require special treatment. 

There are some, whom I would not 
offend, but who nevertheless are deficient in 
those graceful curves that Nature bestows 
upon her best art, who require farthingales, 
hoops, improvers, and even flounces to dis- 
guise the angularity of their structure, whilst 
others go the other extreme of rotundity, 
such as a lady I knew, who was taller when 
she sat down than when she stood up, and 
must baffle the most ingenious contrivers 
of European costume, and whom nothing 
but a Chinese or loose Japanese gown could 
make at all presentable. 

I think female dress may be either very 
gorgeous, or very simple — gorgeous as a 
Venetian lady when Titian and Paul Vero- 
nese delighted to depict her in rich bro- 
cades and a wealth of pearls and jewellery, 
or simple as in England a hundred years 
ago, when our great-grandmothers wore 
muslin gowns with short waists and silk 
sashes, the beauty and refinement of their 
faces making their chief attraction, and the 
simplicity of the dress leaving full scope for 
the gracefulness of the figure to display 
itself, as we see in the pictures of Sir Joshua 
Reynolds, Gainsborough, George Morland, 
Romney, and others. 

But the great artists seldom adhere to 
the passing fashions ; they arrange the dress 
or reconstruct it so that it shall be most be- 
coming to their sitters and at the same time 
make a good composition of colour and 
form for their pictures. This is also done 
by ladies of taste, who will often turn some 
freak of fashion into a thing of beauty, and, 
regardless of their milliner and dressmaker, 
will adopt some modification of the passing 
style if it seems to them more suitable and 

The sense of fitness in dress as in every- 
thing else, should, I think, guide the fair 
sex of whatever degree — and I must say that 
there are fewer costumes more suitable and, 

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u I I I '_' I I I 





at the same time, much prettier than those 
of some of our domestic servants, who, with 
their white caps, bibs and aprons and black 
dresses make quite dainty little pictures, 
often reminding us of that well-known print 
of " La Belle Chocolatifere." 

Whether this idea of fitness could be 
carried out in the cases of lady Town Coun- 
cillors, female clerks, &c, &c, I do not 
know. I must leave that and many other 
matters connected with this subject to more 
competent judges, — and remain, Yours 

G. A. Storey. 

Mr. Wyke Bayliss, P.R.B.A. 

Sir, — You ask me to give you, in the 
form of a letter, my ideas on the subject of 
ladies' dress. 

It is not without considerable hesitation 
that I venture to approach so sacred a 
mystery. I should indeed be disposed to 
decline your courteous invitation to be 
11 drawn " upon the question, on the ground 
that I am not a figure painter, but for the 
consideration that although unhappily an 
artist is obliged in his work to limit the 
range of his vision, yet the beauty that 
exists in the world is the common 
heritage of us all, and every artist is, or 
should be, equally appreciative of the love- 
liness of our companions in life, and jealous 
of the safety and honour of the shrine at 
which we all worship. 

Replying to your letter, therefore, not as 
a specialist, but simply as an artist, I would 
say : 

The first essential in a woman's dress 
should be that the beauty of it must be a 
beauty that shall always be beautiful. I do 
not deprecate fashion — on the contrary, 
change is in itself pleasant to the eyes. But 
it must be a change from one loveliness to 
another. To see a rose is always an ex- 
quisite delight ; so it is to see a lily. But 
we are not called upon to decide once for all 
which we prefer, and if we choose the rose 
to kill all the lilies. Thus it should be with 
dress : change is desirable, but it must be 
on the understanding that no ugly thing 
shall be tolerated for the sake of fashion. 

That is, I think, the first great principle ; 
and attention to it would rid us for ever of 
the danger of the recurrence of those mon- 
strosities that have brought the very name 
of " fashion " into contempt. There have 
been vagaries in dress to which our country- 
women have submitted, not because they 
had an imperfect perception of what is 

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really beautiful and took the false for true, 
but because, in obedience to the inexorable 
laws of fashion, they accepted regretfully 
what they knew to be ugly. I hope the 
time will never come again when we may 
be tempted to lay a finger on her ladyship's 
hoops, and ask, as the little maid did, 
41 Pray, madam, is that all yourself?" The 
leaders of fashion in Europe see clearly 
enough that to mutilate a woman's foot, as. 
the Chinese do, is a barbarous custom ; but 
they do not perceive that to make European 
ladies walk painfully on stilts and tiptoe is 
barbarism of the same kind. But the truth 
is that every attempt to modify the human 
form is an act of savagery, and any form of 
dress that simulates a modification, whether 
worn in Pekin or in Paris, or in London, 
is a savage dress, and carries with it the 
additional shame of being a sham. Let us 
be content with women as God made them. 
Let them be dressed, not altered. In a word, 
no dress can be really beautiful that suggests 
a personal deformity. 

Secondarily to this reverence for the 
human form should be fair treatment of the 
fabric of which the dress is made. Velvet, 
silk, linen, — each has its own natural way 
of falling into folds ; and the shape that 
a dress should take should be the natural 
result of the folding of the material, and 
not the result of an artificial construction. 
This principle may also be expressed in 
the simple form of a negative. No dress 
can be really beautiful that suggests the 
carrying about of a machine. 

Then as to colour. I think the present 
taste for soft, tertiary colours is altogether 
favourable. Strong colours, in a mass, are 
destructive to the delicacy of colour and ex- 
pression in a woman's face. The vermilion 
of her lips should not have to fight the red 
that is suitable enough for pillar-posts. The 
blue of her eyes should not have to compete 
with that of Reckitt. The missing colour, 
yellow, should not be flaunted against her 
carnations and azure and pearly white. A 
woman is worth more than to be subor- 
dinated to an aniline dye. The primary or 
secondary colours should be used {like brass 
instruments in a fine orchestra) very sbar- 

These arc, of course, very general prin- 
ciples. But I am not an expert in millinery, 
and can only speak generally. 

I think, however, that there is a tolerably 
safe test that might be applied in carrying 
them out, viz., What will the dress look 
like in a picture ? Artists are every day 




finding their inspirations more and more in 
the living men and women of their own 
time. Women are every day making more 
history for men to paint. Let them dress 
so as to be paintable. Dress how they will, 
they are always admired, and reverenced, 
and loved. But I cannot say the same of 
their dress. The time has been when, in 
order to paint a woman, the first necessity 
for the artist was to get possession of her 
great-grandmother's gown. Under such 
circumstances the painting of contemporary 
life must be limited to portraiture ; and 
everything that limits the range of art, 
limits its splendour and the hold it should 
have on our affections. 

There are only a few words that I care to 

I think we lose something as a nation in 
not having a distinctive dress for our peas- 
antry and the bourgeoises of our provincial 
towns — nothing, I mean, to correspond with 
the square of linen folded on the head, of 
which the Roman woman is so justly proud, 
or the white caps of Normandy and Holland, 
varying in shape according to the town- 
ship. The picturesque way in which the 
shawl is, used by our Lancashire lasses is, 
indeed, some approach to it. But I recog- 
nise the impossibility of the Continental 
system being established amongst us. 

Would it, however, be too much to hope 
that the ladies of England may see fit to 
adopt the beautiful custom of wearing a 
special garment for church services ? It 
would be in itself so seemly ; it would add 
so much to the grace and dignity of our wor- 
ship ; it would be so agreeable a contrast to 
the parterre of bonnets in the lecture-room, 
and the pretty grouping of black and brown 
and golden hair — yes, and of silver, too — in 
the opera-house, that I believe the sugges- 
tion has only to be fairly considered to be 

I ask, "Will the ladies see fit to do this? 11 
because, after all, it is a woman's question. 
Men have a right to be considered, but a 
womarfs dress, to be beautiful^ must be the 
expression of a womaits mitid, and the work 
of a woman's hand. — I am, Sir, yours faith- 
fully, Wykk Bayliss. 

Mr. John Absolon, R.I. 

52, Chetwynd-road, N.W. 
Dear Sir, — Alt padding, unless to hide 
a positive deformity, is a mistake. Fashion 
must be constantly changing, or how would 
dressmakers live ? I remember taking my 
wife to a friend's in the country. Next 
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morning the young ladies were invisible, 
but appeared in the afternoon without crino- 
lines. I never submitted to that abomina- 
tion, and my wife, to please me, never put 
one on. The young ladies thought Mrs. 
Absolon brought the last London change ! 
— Truly yours, John Absolon, R.I. 

Lastly, let us hear the opinion of a lady 
artist. Madame Starr Canziani — for years 
one of the best known lady exhibitors at the 
Royal Academy, to whom we owe the fol- 
lowing designs — writes as follows : — 

Madamk Starr Canziani. 

3, Palace-green, W. 
Sir, — I have been asked to give my 
opinion of modern dress, its merits and de- 
merits, from an artist's point of view. It 
seems to me that while much at the pre- 
sent time is picturesque and quaint in the 
extreme, the highest laws of beauty demand 
fitness as well, and while we have no fixed 


principles to guide our fashions, however 
beautiful and sensible they may happen to 
be at any given moment, there must always 




be the danger that at the next moment they 
may relapse into the inconvenient and 

Considering hew much has been done of 
late years to encourage all other forms of 
art, I cannot help wondering why in the 
Art Schools now existing all over the 
country, no classes have been instituted in 
which the principles of hygiene and fitness, 
harmony of colour, proportion, and beauty 
are taught. Architecture and decorative 
design are taught in the schools, but dress, 
which has existed since the world began, 
has no guiding laws, 
and sways from the 
severely ugly and 
matter-of-fact to the 
wildest extravagance of 
form and colour in a 
manner truly grotesque, 
were it not so sad to 
those who love ideal 
beauty, and whose eyes 
are daily outraged by 
flagrant sins against 
the laws of beauty and 
common sense* 

There never was a 
time in which there 
was a greater abund- 
ance and variety of 
materials, rich and 
simple, exquisite em- 
broideries, and lovely 
combinations of colour; 
but of what avail are 
all these beautiful 
materials if they are 
erroneously employed ? 
At the present moment 
— alas ! that we only 
dare speak for the ab- 
solute moment — some 
of the forms of dress 
are, on the whole, 
simple and practical, 
and express the natural 
figure fairly well ; but who can say what 
wild vagaries the next caprice of the 
fash ion -giver may bring forth ? 

If the laws of health and beauty were 
more generally understood, would it be 
possible that such enormities could r\i.-t :t- 
tight lacing, and high heels, and pointed 
toes ? I am far from holding in abhorrence 
all corsets whatever. There are few figures 
which can do entirely without some stay ; 
but tidiness and a neat, well-fitting gown 
are very different things from the walking 

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hour-glass that seems as if it would snap in 
two at a touch. 

But though the stay, when properly used, 
may be upheld, there is nothing that can be 
said in excuse of the wicked fashion — wicked, 
because the cause of much deformity and 
disease — of the high heel and pointed toe. 
We all know the mischief done by the very 
high heel, and from an artistic point of 
view it is to be condemned, making, as it 
does, the prettiest foot look like a hoof and 
destroying all freedom and dignity of gait. 
The pointed toe distorts the foot from its 
natural shape and gives 
the idea of the front 
claw of a vulture pro- 
truding from the gown, 
and while it miserably 
fails in making the foot 
look small, succeeds 
only too well in mak- 
ing it hideous. If one 
sees the whole foot, its 
width appears very 
much greater than it 
really is, by contrast 
with the point, and the 
joint of the big toe is 
brought into most 
aggressive prominence. 
If one sees only the 
end of the shoe peep- 
ing from under the 
dress, in many cases the 
point with its rapidly 
diverging lines sug- 
gests that the foot 
hidden by the gown 
may continue to any 
width, however enor- 

With the square-toed 
shoe, on the contrary, 
one has a fair idea of 
the whole width of the 
foot at once. It cannot 
go much beyond that, 
and the ideas of discomfort and pain are 
not constantly forced into one's mind. 

Characteristic dresses of the period are 
the riding habit and tailor-made gown. I 
humbly confess that I dislike them both, 
for while they are simple, practical, plain, 
neat, warm, and on a slender unexaggerated 
figure, modest — they fail in the quality of 
womanliness, and therefore cannot be 

They are not womanly in sentiment. 
First because (a reason which has little to 

Original from 




do with the scope of this letter) a woman's 
clothes should be made by a woman only, 
and all who are loyal to their own sex would 
employ each other in an occupation so 

Then they are unwomanly because they 
imitate men's dress, and I don't know that 
I should make a sin of this, were it not that 
at the present time men's dress is too truly 
hideous to be imitated even by a savage of 
darkest Africa ! 

It is for this reason that I find the riding 
habit so ugly and inartistic. Practical it is, 
but it apes the coat and the hat (!) of the 
man, and now that his cardboard shirt and 
collar are often added, I have no words 
strong enough that I may use to express 
the depths of my dislike. 

I do not agree with the general opinion 
that a good-looking woman never looks so 
well as on her horse. If she do look well, I 
believe it to be in spite of her habit and not 
because of it, and that all the charm which 
a well-cut, appropriate, and simple garment 
can give to a graceful figure could perfectly 
well be retained, and yet that slightly more 
liberty might be allowed as to texture of 
material and colour (though the colour 
should always be quiet and mellow) and 
appropriate ornamentation by braiding the 
body and sleeves of the habit. By these 
means its hard severity would be somewhat 
softened, and without destroying the simple 
lines it would be rendered more feminine, 
and the fitness of the garment for its purpose 
would by no means be interfered with. 

My objection to tailor-made gowns is that 
they give no scope for graceful, natural 
movement. In these the figure is made to 
fit the dress, and not the dress the figure, 
and if the wearer lift her arm above her 
head she must burst — or one feels that, 
having originally begun as a human being, 
well, she ought to burst if she doesn't. I 
am not fond of inventing sins, and think we 
already have enough for all our needs, and 
I cannot see — to save my life I cannot see — 
the harm of moving if one wants to do so. 
The whole costume is a failure so far as 
beauty and picturesqueness are concerned, 
but it claims to be practical, and if there 
were only a little more room in it for all the 
purposes of life I should say it succeeded 

It also succeeds in something else. It 
paints truly the character of the women of 
the age. Matter-of-fact, sharp, full of 
common sense, with an eye to the main 
chance they are, and their tailor-made 

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gowns express this most clearly. Not much 
room seemingly is there for romantic or 
motherly love, for devotion and self-sacrifice, 
in those tightly-fitting cases. 

How different are the women of Sir 
Joshua Reynolds' time ! Delicate, ethereal 
creatures, with swaying, soft movements, 
not fit for this hard every-day world. 
These exquisite beings went out in thinnest 
of evening shoes into the wet grass. They 
never wore anything more practical than 
soft white satin, even in a thunderstorm, 
and they never saw the thunderstorm 
coming. They knew not of homespun nor 
of heavy boots, and when their true loves 
went to the wars, they did not wait until 
they came back, but went into consumption 
and died. At least many of them did, 
though some lived to be our great-grand- 

At any rate it was the proper thing to do 
in those days, and it is not the proper thing 
now. No — our maidens no longer faint, 
and pine, and die, nor do they wait either — 
they marry someone else ! 

I confess to a feeling of wonder when I 
look at Sir Joshua Reynolds and Romney's 
beautiful women. I wonder how they are 
going to get away from the pedestal or tree 
against which they are leaning without dis-. 
tressing very much their soft draperies 
when they move. But — how tender, how 
graceful, how refined, how fascinating, how 
pure and faithful and womanly these gentle 
beings are ! Their dresses were the out- 
come of the character and customs of the 
period, but although very feminine and 
beautiful were not practical, and would not 
be adapted to our present needs. 

And this brings me to what I want to 
ask. What constitutes fitness and woman- 
liness in dress ? Do the dresses of the 
period possess these qualities ? I certainly 
think not always, and without fitness and 
womanliness no dress can be artistically 

To be beautiful, it should be the expres- 
sion of a beautiful mind, a beautiful body, 
and of perfect health and ease, and of natural 
delight in movement. 

Also, it should have no association with 

No dress can be beautiful that is dis- 
figured by an innocent animal wantonly 
sacrificed to the vanity and egotism of the 

What womanly woman would wear real 
astracan on her jacket (if she knows what 
real astracan is), or the corpses of gulls, 




doves, humming-birds, swallows, &c\, in 
her hair ? No one with a heart could do it, 
or t haying a heart, the brain must be want- 
ing which would enable her to think of the 
unjustifiable cruelty to which she gives her 

If I were a man, nothing would induce 
me to marry a girl who would wear a bird 
in her hat, I should think : " Either she is 
selfish and cold, and through life would sacri- 
fice everything to her own vanity or inte- 
rests, or else she has so little mind and 
judgment that she would be ill able to 
conduct the affairs of life with discre- 

I should say that never was a pretty face 
rendered one whit the prettier by the body 
of a dead animal above it, but that on the 
contrary the attention is distracted from the 
living beauty beneath, and the mind is 
saddened and disgusted by the association 
of cruelty, and death, and decay, with the 
tender and beautiful 
womanhood which 
should rightly only 
call forth deepest feel- 
ings of admiration 
and respect. 

From these ex- 
amples it would 
appear that unless 
restrained by more 
general knowledge of 
guiding principles, 
dress, as hitherto, will 
always err by the 
want of some one 
necessary quality or 
another, be it that of 
beauty or of utility, 
or by indulgence in 
the vulgar, masculine, 
ur grotesque. 

How lately have we 
been subjected to the 
most illogical treat- 
ment of fine materials. 
M agn i fice n t ve 1 ve I s 
and brocades cut up 
into u panels " of all 
sizes and all shapes, 
expressing nothing 
unless deformity. 
Tapering 4i gores'* put 
wide end up on the 
skirt, or cross ways, or 

any way except one in which they might 
help to express the shape — if the human 
form could be expressed by patches ! Add 



to these the folds gathered into the afore- 
said panels across, sideways, upside down, 
and the hump behind in the wrong place, 
and the hats like a huge dish stuck on in 
front with nothing behind, so that the 
wearer looks as if she must topple forward 
for want of balance, and we wonder what 
the good of civilisation and education can 
be if they only bring us to this, Truly, 
that savage in Africa can have little to learn 
from us in the way of adornment. 

Still, we must thankfully acknowledge 
that at the present moment, amongst the 
better classes, there is much that is ideal in 
dress. How simple and how lovely arc 
some of the afternoon gowns, how pic- 
turesque the hats and cloaks, and what 
romances of colour and form may one not 
find among tea and evening gowns ? The 
lea gown especially lends itself to grace of 
line and beauty of colour and material. 
I should like, before concluding, to say a 
few words about the 
most beautiful dress 
of all times and coun- 
tries — the Greek. I 
cannot see why it 
should not be adopted 
in England for even- 
ing dress, or at any 
time when the wearer 
is not exposed to wind 
and weather* Then, 
I am fain to confess, 
the clinging, volumin- 
ous draperies and the 
long skirts would be 
sadly in the way, and 
be no longer practical 
nor beautiful. But I 
do think that the 
principles governing 
classical Greek dress 
should be our guide 
in all costume. Our 
garments should be 
garments with a 
meaning and a pur- 
pose. We should 
never contradict Na- 
ture's simple lines by 
false protuberances or 
exaggerations. To be 
beautiful, clothes 
should, by their shape, 
express the figure un- 
derneath ; any cutting about of material 
in such a manner as to contradict the 

natural lines of the shape must be wrong, 




If the figure be ungainly, the lines of the 
dress should be so discreetly managed as to 
apparently lessen its defects and suggest 
better proportions to the eye. 

The gown should also be in harmony 
with the character of the mind and form of 
the wearer, and while quaintness of cut and 
even frippery (in a sense) may be appro- 
priate to a merely pretty woman, and, 
discreetly used, may give interest to a plain 
one, only the very simplest and most flow- 
ing forms are worthy of the noblest type of 
beauty No one could imagine the Venus 
of Milo in ribbons or frills, but wrap her in 
a sheet and her beauty will still dominate 
the world. 

Dress need not be Greek in form to be 
Greek in spirit. I think we only need look, 

and we shall find the following noble 
qualities in Greek dress : — Fitness and 
honesty, simplicity, modesty, and dignity. 
— I am, Sir, your truly, 

Louisa Starr Canziani, 

It will be seen that, on the whole, the 
verdict of the artists on the present style of 
ladies' dress is considerably more favourable 
than might have been anticipated from the 
adverse criticism to which it is so commonly 
exposed. Indeed, the consensus of opinion 
is one which cannot fail to gratify our lady 
readers, since, in reality, it affirms not only 
that they are themselves, as ever, the delight 
of painters, but that — tomfooleries of tight- 
lacing and high heels apart — their everyday 
attire may be so also. 

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Original from 


How the Redoubt was Taken. 
From thr French of Prospkk M£rim£r* 

[PROSPER MerTm£e was born in rSo3 and died in 1870, His father was a painter— but Prosper started 
life upon a lawyers stool. Before thirty he was made Inspector-General of Historic Monuments, and in the 
pleasant occupation of this office he travelled over most of Kurope, and afterwards described his travels in a 
book. Then ne began to wriie shon stories — among them kt Carmen/' which the opera founded on its plot 
has made a household word. These little masterpieces— he never tried his hand at a long tale—exquisite in 
style, and full of life and action, gained his election to the French Academy* And he deserved his fame. 
He has the magic art which makes the things of fancy real as life itself, we know not how. bL How the 
Redoubt was Taken" is in length a very little story — but to read it is to be present with the storming-party, 
in their mad rush to victory and death.] 

FRIEND of mine, a soldier, 
who died in Greece of ftver 
some years since f described to 
me one day his first engage- 
m en t , H i s s to ry so i m pressed 
me that I wrote it down from 
memory. It was as follows : — 

I joined my regiment on September 4, 
It was evening. I found the colonel in the 


by L^OOglC 

camp. He received me rather brusquely 1 
but having read the general's introductory 
letter he changed his manner, and addressed 
me courteously. 

By him I was presented to my captain, 
who had just come in from reconnoitring. 
This captain, whose acquaintance I had 
scarcely time to make, was a tall, dark 
man, of harsh f repelling aspect. He had 
been a private soldier, and had won his 
cross and epaulettes upon the field of 
battle. His voice, which was hoarse 
and feeble, contrasted strangely with 
his gigantic stature. This voice of 
his he owed, as I was told, to a 
bullet which had passed completely 
through his body at the battle of 

On learning that I had just 
come from college at Fontaine- 
bleau, he remarked, with a wry 
face, "My lieutenant died last 

I understood what he implied 
— "It is for you to take his 
place, and you are good for 

A sharp retort was on my 
tongue, but I restrained it. 

The moon was rising behind 
the redoubt of Cheverino, which 
stood two cannon-shots from 
our encampment. The moon 
was large and red, as is common 
at her rising ; but that night 
she seemed to me of extra- 
ordinary size. For an instant 
the redoubt stood out coal-black 
against the glittering disk, It 
resembled the cone of a volcano 
at the moment of eruption. 

An old soldier, at whose side 
I found myself, observed the 
colour of the moon. 

u She is very red," he said. 

ofeitelftoPfP that * *«0 




cost us dear to win this wonderful 

I was always superstitious^ and this piece 
of augury, coming at that moment, troubled 
me. I sought my couch, but could not 
sleep. I rose, and walked about awhile, 
watching the long line of fires upon the 
heights beyond the village of Chevcrino* 

When the sharp night air had thoroughly 
refreshed my blood I went back to the fire, 
I rolled my" mantle round me, and I shut 
my eyes, trusting not to open them till day- 
break* But sleep refused to visit me. In- 
sensibly my thoughts grew doleful. I told 
myself that I had not a friend among the 
hundred thousand men who filled that plain. 
If I were wounded , I should be placed in 
hospital, in the hands of ignorant and care- 
less surgeons. I 
called to mind 
what I had heard 
of operations. My 
heart beat vio- 
lently, and I 
mechanically ar- 
ranged, as a kind 
of rude cuirass, 
my handkerchief 
and pocket-book 
upon my breast. 
Then, over- 
powered with 
weariness, my 
eyes closed 
drowsily, only to 
open the next 
instant with a 
start at some 
new thought of 

Fatigue, how- 
e v c r, at last 
gained the day. 
When the drums 
beat at daybreak 
I was fast asleep. 
We were drawn 
up in rank. The 
roll was called, 
then we stacked 
our arms, and 
everything an- 
nounced that we 
should pass an- 
other uneventful 

But about three o'clock an aide-de-camp 
arrived with orders. We were commanded 
to take arms, 


Our sharp-shooters marched into the 
plain, We followed slowly, and in twenty 
minutes we taw the outposts of the Russians 
falling back and entering the redoubt. We 
had a battery of artillery on our right, 
another on our left, but both some distance 
in advance of us. They opened a sharp fire 
upon the enemy, who returned it briskly, 
and the redoubt of Cheverino was soon 
concealed by volumes of thick smoke. Our 
regiment was almost covered from the 
Russians' fire by a piece of rising ground. 
Their bullets (which besides were rarely 
aimed at us, for they preferred to fire upon 
our cannoneers) whistled over us, or at worst 
knocked up a shower of earth and stones. 
Just as the order to advance was given, 
the captain looked at me intently. I stroked 

my sprouting 
moustache with 
an air of uncon- 
cern ; in truth, I 
was not fright- 
ened, and only 
dreaded lest I 
might be thought 
so* These passing 
bullets aided my 
heroic coolness, 
while my self- 
respect assured 
me that the dan- 
ger was a real 
one, since I was 
veritably under 
fire. 1 was de- 
lighted at my self- 
possession, and 
already looked 
forward to the 


pleasure of describing in Parisian drawing- 
rooms the capture of the redoubt of 

Che verinooriginal from 


i 7 6 


The colonel passed before our company, 
"Well,'- he said to me, li you are going 
to see warm work in your first action," 

I gave a martial smile, and brushed my 
cuff, on which a bullet, which had struck 
the earth at thirty paces distant, had cast a 
little dust. 

It appeared that the Russians had dis- 
covered that their bullets did no harm, for 
they replaced them by a fire of shells, which 
began to reach us in the hollows where we 
lay. One of these, in its explosion, knocked 
oft my shako and killed a man beside me. 

u I congratulate you," said the captain, 
as I picked up my shako. li You are safe 
now for the day. 1 ' 

prophetic words. But, conscript though I 
was, I felt that I could trust my thoughts 
to no one, and that it was my duty to seem 
always calm and bold. 

At the end of half an hour the Russian 
fire had sensibly diminished. We left our 
cover to advance on the redoubt. 

Our regiment was composed of three 
battalions. The second had to take the 
enemy in flank ; the two others formed the 
storming party- I was in the third. 

On issuing from behind the cover, we 
were received by several volleys, which did 
but little harm. The whistling of the 
balls anwed me. "But after all/* I 

I replaced my shako with 

I knew the 
military super- 
stition which be- 
lieves that the 
axiom nnn his in 
idem is as applic- 
able to the battle- 
field as to the 
courts of justice, 
a swagger. 

"That's a rude way to make one raise 
one's hat/' I said, as lightly as I could. And 
this wretched piece of wit was, in the cir- 
cumstances, received as excellent, 

"I compliment you/' said the captain. 
li You will command a company to-night ; 
for I shall not survive the day. Every time 
I have been wounded the officer below me 
has been touched by some spent ball ; and/ 1 
he added, in a lower tone T " all their names 
began with P/' 

I laughed sceptically ; most people 
would have done the same ; but most would 
also have been struck, as I was, by these 
Digitized by LiOOv IC 


ihough t t * l a 
battle is less 
terrible than I 
We advanced 
at a smart run, our musketeers in front. 
All at once the Russians uttered three 
hurras — three distinct hurras — and then 
stood silent* without firing, 

14 1 don't like that silence/' said the 
captain. "It bodes no good," 

I began to think our people were ton 
eager. I could not help comparing, men- 
tally, their shouts and clamour with the 
striking silence of the enemy- 

We quickly reached the - foot of the re- 
doubt- The palisades were broken and 
the earthworks shattered by our balls. 
With a roar of "Vive rEmpereur!" our 
soldiers rushed across the ruins. 
I raised ,-f^j£ ,|^ f |pf p^ever shall I forget 




the sight which met my view, The smoke 
had mostly lifted, and remained suspended, 
like a canopy, at twenty feet above the 
redoubt. Through a bluish mist could be 
perceived, behind their shattered parapet, 
the Russian Grenadiers, with rifles lifted, 
as motionless as statues. I can see them 
still — the left eye of every soldier glaring 
at us, the right hidden by his lifted gun. 
In an embrasure as a few feet distant, a 
man with a fusee stood by a cannon. 

I shuddered, I believed that my last 
hour had come. 

II Now for the dance to open ! " cried the 
captain. These were the last words I heard 
him speak. 

There came from the redoubt a roll of 
drums. I saw the muzzles lowered, I shut 
my eyes ; I heard a most appalling crash of 
sound, to which succeeded groans and cries. 
Then I looked up, amazed to find myself 
still living. The redoubt was once more 
wrapped in smoke. I was surrounded by 
the dead and wounded. The captain was 
extended at my feet ; a ball had carried oft" 

enemy. I found my sabre dripping bloud ; 
I heard a shout of " Victory"; and, in 
the clearing smoke, I saw the earthworks 
piled with dead and dying. The cannons 
were covered with a heap of corpses* About 
two hundred men in the French uniform 
were standing, without order, loading their 
muskets or wiping their bayonets, Eleven 
Russian prisoners were with them* 

The colonel was lying, bathed in blood, 
upon a broken cannon. A group of soldiers 
crowded round him, I approached them. 

(< Who is the oldest captain ? ?J he was 
asking of a sergeant, 

The sergeant shrugged his shoulders 
most expressively. 

" Who is the oldest lieutenant t JJ 

w This gentleman, who came last night/' 
replied the sergeant, calmly. 
' The colonel smiled bitterly, 

44 Come, sir/' he said to me, "you are 
now in chief command. Fortify the gorge 
of the redoubt at once with waggons, for 
the enemy is out in force. But General 
C— is coming to support you." 

his head, and 1 was covered 
with his blood. Of all the 
company, only six men, except 
myself, remained erect, 

This carnage was succeeded 
by a kind of stupor. The 
next instant the colonel, 
with his hat on his sword's 
point, had scaled the 
parapet with a cry of 
''Vivel'Enipereur!" The 
survivors followed him. 
All that succeeded is to 
me a kind of dream. We rushed into the 
redoubt, I know not how ; we fought 
hand to hand in the midst of smoke so 
thick that no, man could perceive his 


*' Colonel," I asked him, a are you badly 
wounded ? " 

11 Pish, my dear fellow ! The redoubt is 

by Google 

Original from 

Actors Dressing Rooms. 

HE robing apartments of 
actors arc pleasant retreats, 
Quaint old prints, auto- 
graphed portraits and pic- 
tures, highly - prized pro- 
grammes, letters from cele- 
brities are as numerous as they are in- 
teresting, whilst every actor bids "good 
Iuck T ' cross his threshold by exhibiting his 
own particular h^rse-shoe in a conspicuous 

Where is a more picturesque room than 
that which Henry Irving enters nightly? 
Scarcely a dozen square inches of wall 
paper is to be seen— pictures are every- 
where. The eminent tragedian has a 

was on his way to America, He turned 
up, however, at the Lyceum stage door four 
days afterwards, and it remains a mystery 
to this day as to whether Fussie came by 
road or rail 

Henry Irving's room is a comfortable 
apartment. The floor is covered with oil- 
cloth, and a huge rug imparts a cosy ap- 
pearance. Irving always uses the same 
chair to sit in when making up. It has 
broken down a score of times, but has been 
patched up again and again. In fact, the actor 
has almost a reverence for anything which 
is a connecting link with old associations. 

Look at the costumes, for instance, hang- 
ing behind a door which leads to a very 


private entrance in Burleigh -street, and you 
may know when the actor is not far away, 
for ftl Fussie/' a pet fox-terrier, always 
heralds his approach. li Fussie " has his 
own mat to sit on, and here he waits during 
the whole of the performance until after the 
second act, when he regularly looks up for 
hiscustomary biscuit. It was ,( Fussie 1? who 
was lost at Southampton when Mr* Irving 

Digitized by v.* GO SIC 

unpretentious-looking wash -basin. There 
hangs the clothing of The Master of 
JRavenswood, The two Spanish hats with 
long feathers, the velvet coat and waistcoat 
with innumerable buttons, a quaint old 
crimson waistcoat, with elaborate silveT 
work. Mr, Irving clings to an old coat so 
long as it will cling to him. He makes his 
clothes old — weirs them during the day. 




That old beaver hat was worn in ^Charles 
I." and Ki The Dead Heart "-now it is the 
characteristic head-gear of The Master of 
Raven&wood. The hat worn in the last 
act did duty ten years ago in " The Comcan 

There, just by the long pier glass, is the 
old fashioned oak dressing-table, of a pattern 
associated with the days of King Arthur 
— in fact, the table has done duty in 
" Macbeth' 1 in one of the banqueting 
scenes. Handle some of the veritable 
curiosities on it + The very looking-glass is 
up with string — it has reflected its 


owner's face for 
and went 

years, and went across 
Atlantic with him. The old 
pincushion went as well. 
On a chair are the actors 
eye-glasses, which he always 
uses when making up. Scis- 
sors, nail parers, &c., are 
about, whilst the paints lie 
in a little side cabinet by 
the looking-glass, and four 
diminutive gallipots are con- 
spicuous, filled with the 
col ou r s ni os t ly u sed * A g reat 
tin box of crepe hair is also 
at hand, for Mr. Irving makes 
all his own moustaches. He 
gums a little hair on where 
needed and then works in colour to get the 

The wicker hand-basket is interesting. 
The dresser carries this to "the wings'* 
when the actor needs a rapid change of 
li make-up. 11 It has three compartments, 
holding a glass of water, powder puff, 
saucer containing fullers earth, cold cream, 
hare's foot, lip salve, rouge, and a remark- 
ably old comb and brush. Here is a 
striking collection of rings ; a great emerald 
— only a " stage " gem, alas ! — is worn in 
" Louis XI." and " Richelieu," whilst here is 
one worn as Dor 1 court in the " Belle's 
Stratagem/' the space where the stone 
ought to be being ingeniously filled up with 
blue sealing wax. These long pear- shaped 
pearl earrings are worn as diaries I. } such 
as all gay cavaliers were wont to wear, 

You can handle the quaint old bull's-eye 
lantern w T hich tradition says Eugene Aram 
carried on the night of the murder — for it 
is on the table, A piece of wick still 
remains and grease is visible — not as the 
morbid Aram left it, but as last used. The 
lantern itself is of stamped metal, The 
glass on either side is there, though that 


through which the light was seen in the 
centre has long since left. It is a highly 
interesting relic. 

Be careful not to step into a big flower- 
pot saucer just close by, where "Fussie" 
drinks ; mind not to overturn what looks 
like a magnified pepper-box near the fire- 
place, but which, after all, only contains the 
dust which is H peppered "on to the actor's 
long boots, to make them look travel- 
stained and worn. Then walk round the 
room and admire the treasures. 

There is a little gift sent from Denmark, 
In a neat oak frame is a picture of Elsi- 
npre, sprays of leaves from 
"Ophelia's brook," and a 
number of tiny stones and 
pebbles from ** Hamlet's 
Grave." Here again is Kean, 
by Sir Thomas Lawrence, a 
small " Maclise," a sketch by 
Charles Matthews, Fechter — 
who used to dress in this 
very room himself — as The 
Master o/Ravenswood^ Ellen 
Terry as Opheiia^ Sara Bern- 
hardt, and John L, Toole. 
Variety is found in a pair of 
horseshoes, one of which Mr. 
Irving carried with him to 

Over the crimson plush 
mantel-board is " Garrick in the Green- 
room," and on either side a pair of ancient 
coloured prints of the one and only Joey 
Grimaldi, one of which represents him "as 
he appeared when he took his farewell 
benefit at Drary Lane Theatre on June 27, 
1828," with pan and soap in his lap, arrayed 
in highly coloured garments, wonderfully 
made, and wearing a remarkably broad 
smile on his face, But to mention every 
one of Mr, Irving's treasures would be 

The play over, he is in walking costume, 
cigar alight, and away in less than a quarter 
of an hour — "Fussie" with him, follow- 
ing faithfully in his steps. 

Mr, Toole's room is exactly what every 
body imagines it to be — cosy and homely, 
like its genial occupant, The casual 
passer-by over the iron grating in King 
William-street little thinks that he is 
throwing a momentary shadow over the 
very corner where Toole's washstand, soap 
and towel find a convenient lodging. 

How simple everything is ! The little 
table in the centre where Toole sits down 


i So 


and religiously "drops a line/' during the 
time he is not wanted in the piece, to all 
those unknown 4l young friends" who 
would tempt good fortune on the stage ; 
the sofa covered with flowered cretonne ; 
and in close proximity to the fireplace a 

rising young actor who had only recently 
made his appearance— J, L. Toole by name. 
Near a capita! character sketch of 
Henry J, Byron, by Alfred Bryan , is an old 
playbill in a black ebony frame. This was 
the programme for one night : — 

MR. TOULh i> |Httt!?b[.NCi-MJUMr 

ricketty arm-chair in brown leather. The 
springs arc broken, but what matter ? That 
chair is Toole's, sir, and Royalty has occu- 
pied it many a time. Yes, nothing could 
be more simple than our own comedian's 
dressing-room. It is just a cosy parlour, 
and with Toole in the chair by the fireside 
one would be loth to leave it. 

The mantel-board has a clock in the 
centre, an ornament or two, and a bust of 
the occupant in his younger days. In a 
corner is the veritable umbrella used in 
Paul Pry. What a priceless collection of 
theatrical reminiscences meet the eye every- 
where ! There is a portrait group of a com- 
pany of young actors who appeared in the 
original production of " Dearer than Life," 
at the New Queen's Theatre, Long-acre 
— Henry Irving, Charles Wyndham, 
John Clayton, Lionel Brough, John L. 
Toole, and Miss Henrietta Hodson, who 
afterwards became Mrs. Labouchere, A 
tolerably good cast ! And here are por- 
traits of a few actors taken years ago at 
Ryde, Isle of Wight, showing W. Creswiek 
in a great Inverness cape, Benjamin 
Webster, S. Phelps, Paul Bedford, and a 

Digitized by GGOgIc 

Mkkchant of Vkkiclc, 

The Drama in 3 Acts : 
Mind Yolk Own Business. 

Kehlky Wqkkikd hy Buckstonk. 

Mr. Kceky ,„.,,♦.„ By himself, 

Mr, Buchfcnc By himself. 

To conclude with the laughable farce, 

Thk Spitalfields Weaver. 
Simmons ...•-•,.. Mr. John L. Toole. 
(His first appearance on any stage). 

Many a white satin programme is about, 
and the tenant of the little dressing- 
room of King William -street is repre- 
sented in many parts. Just by the 
door is Mr. Listen as Paul Pry \ arrayed in 
bottle-green coat, big beaver hat, and armed 
with the inevitable umbrella — bi just called 
to ask you how your tooth was. n 

An excellent portrait represents John 
Rillington as Juhn Pccryhingk in u Dot/' 
underneath which are penned some note- 
worthy lines-: ■*'■! don't want anybody to 
J UngmalTrom * J 




tell me my fortune. Pve got one of the 
best little wives alive, a happy home over 
my head > a blessed baby, and a cricket on 
my hearth." 

Certainly what Mr. W, S. Gilbert would 
term (i a highly respectable 71 entrance is 
that which leads to Mr, Beerbohm Tree's 
dressing-room. The stage door is in Suffolk- 
street, and until Mr* Tree's tenancy of the 
Hay market Theatre, there was an old clause 
in the lease setting forth that whenever 
Royalty visited the theatre they should 
have the right to enter by that way, Ruck^ 
si one lived here — his dressing-room still 
remains. It is a quaint 
corner near the stage, 
now used by the actors 
as a smoking-room. The 
walls are covered with 
red paper, relieved by 
one or two decidedly 
ancient paintings* Buck- 
stone's iron safe — wherein 
the renowned comedian 
was wont to store his 
money — is still 
visible ; but the 
money-bags are 
there no longer ; 
their place being 
occupied by sun- 
dry jars of tobacco 
and a church- 
warden or two. 
Only on one oc- 
casion has Mr. 
Tree found it 
necessary to use 
this room. The 
corpulency of the 
bibulous Falstajf 
prevented the 
actor from conveniently coming down the 
stairs which lead from his own room to the 
stage — hence Falstaff was attired in this 

The sound of the overture is just begin- 
ning as we hurriedly follow Mr, Tree in the 
direction of his room* Though he ha* been 
singled out as a very master of the art of 
transferring the face into the presentment 
of character, it is a fact that Mr. Tree 
never sits down to dress until the overture 
has start ed, and attaches less importance to 
his make-up than to any other portion of 
the actor's art. 

He thrown himself into a chair of a 
decided li office " pattern t in front mi a triple 

glass which reflects all positions of his face. 
The sticks of paint are arranged on a small 
Japanese tray, and the various powders in 
tin boxes. Everything about the room is 
quiet and unassuming — a washstand near 
the window, a few odd wooden-back chairs. 
The room is regarded rather as a workshop 
than a lounging-room, and it certainly 
possesses that appearance, though not 
without a certain pleasant cosiness. 

The actor's fingers have evidently been 

recently at work on the lengthy pier-glass. 

Young Mr. Irving has ju4 been in. Fie 

wanted some idea of a make-up for King 

John* Mr. Tree gave him one by taking a 


stick of grease paint and sketching it in 
outline on the glass. A number of still 
unanswered letters are lying about — some 
of them delightfully humorous missives 
from " stage-struck ? ' young people. One 
is positively from a footman. It runs : — 

" Dear Sir, — I want to be an actor, so 
ill ought I would write to you* I am tall 
and dark, and have been a footman for five 
years in a nobleman's family, I have just 
had a hundred pounds left me, and if you 
will give me a part in one of your pieces I 
will give you fifty pounds of it Write by 
return, as I have already given notice, — 
Your obedient servant, * 

" P.S .— Mark the letter private/ 1 




In a corner lies the peak cap worn as 
Demetrius in u The Red Lamp " ; here the 
cloth cap, gaily decorated with poppies, 
corn and feathers, used in ki Thc Ballad 
Monger/* Over the door is. a gigantic 
horse shoe, measuring at least a couple of 
feet from top to bottom. This was placed 
here by Mrs + Bancroft, 

Just at this moment a magnificent bull- 
dog — whose appearance we had not pre- 
viously noticed — turns lazily on a mat 
under the dressing-table. This is "Ned/ 1 
rechristened " Bully Boy/ 1 The dog plays 
a prominent part in the piece now running 
at the Hay market. 

A tap at the door. A voice cries, " Mr, 
Tree " — and hurriedly applying a line here 
and there about the eyes, as we accompany 
the actor to the stage, he has something 
interesting to say regarding u making-up." 
He rather laughs at the idea, and is per- 
plexed to understand the reason why his 
facial paintings are so commented upon. 
He is always the last to reach the theatre. 
" The less make-up, the better/- he observes. 
u The art of acting is not a matter of paint- 
ing the face, for a very plain person can in 
a few seconds become extremely good-look- 
ing and vice vcrsA ; it is what comes from 
within — what the player feels. It is his 
imagination which really illuminates the 

by Google 

face, and not what he has put on it with 
hare's foot and pencil." 

A peculiar interest is attached to the visit 
which we made to Mr. John Hare's room 
at the Gar rick Theatre. Mr. Hare has been 
on the stage for twenty-six years, and pre- 
vious to our finding him seated in his great 
arm-chair by the fireplace, had never been 
interviewed. Hence the few words he said, 
as he played with a cigarette, become par- 
ticularly notable, 

" I have been acting now for twenty-six 
years. I was for ten years with Mrs. 
Bancroft at the Prince of Wales's, and have 
been some twelve or thirteen years in 

'* What is your favourite part, Mr. 

" The present one in * A Pair of Spec- 
tacles/ " is the reply* (1 1 take about a 
month to study up a character. I always 
wear the clothes 1 am going to play in for 
some time previously, so as to get them to 
my figure, The longest time I ever be- 
stowed on a make-up was in * The Profli- 
gate.' I took half an hour over it.'* 

Mr. Hare has really two rooms. The 
Original from 




big one is used for an office as much as 
possible, where the actor does all his corre- 
spondence Note the old-fashioned high 
wire fender, the heavy plush curtains, and 
elaborate rosewood furniture. It is a most 
artistic apartment. Those speaking-tubes 
communicate with the stage door, prompter, 
box office, and acting manager. 

The pictures which adorn the walls are 
as varied as they are valuable. Here may be 


found Leslie Ward*s caricature of Corney 
Grain and of George Grossmith, together 
with an old engraving of Garrick,, after R. 
E, Pine, published in itf j8. Just by the 
glass is one of the few photos of Com p ton, 
in frock coat and plaid tie, Many a remin- 
iscence of the Hare and Kendal manage- 
ment is about, and on the mantel-board of 
ebony and gold — over which rests the cus- 
tomary horse-shoe with the initials J. H. 
in the centre — portraits in silver frames of 
members of Mr, Hare's family are to be seen, 
But by far the most attractive corner is 
a little room, scarcely large enough for two 
people to stand in, which branches off from 
the more spacious apartment. There, 
hanging up, is the light suit worn as Ben- 
jamin Gold finely with the long black coat 
which flaps'about so marvellously — theactor 
finds plenty of "character " even in a coat 
—and the shepherd's-plaid trousers. 

The looking-glass is of walnut, with elec- 
tric lights on either side shaded with metal 
leaves. In front of this he sits, amidst a 
hundred little oddments. Here are tiny 
bottles of medicine and quinine — for the 
actor being is a firm believer in the proper- 
ties of this traditional strength-reviver, 
The little room is as comfortable as it well 
can be, and has a thoroughly domesticated 
air about it. 

There are many things to notice as we 
pass through the passages on our way to- 
ward Mr. Charles Wyndham's room at the 
Criterion ; programmes and play-bills in 
German and Russian of " David Garrick'- 
— in fact the passages are literally decorated 
with mementoes of the clever comedian's 
admirable impersonation of this character, 
A bronze of the actor as Davy raising the 
glass on high, and a massive silver loving 
cup, engraved "Garrick," is mounted on a 
pedestal bearing the inscription u Charles 
Wyndham, Von Direktor Lautenberg, 
Residence Theatre, Berlin, December, 
1K87. 1 " Prints and pictures typical of Rus- 
sian life are freely displayed. And here is 
an exceptional curiosity, and one which is 
doubtless highly treasured. In a modest 
oak frame is a piece of paper which once 
served to settle a little dispute, which is 
historical among things theatrical ; — 

" Mr. Bedford wages two gallons of claret 
with Mr, Williams, that Mr. Garrick did 
not play upon ye stage in ye year 1732 or 
before. 11 

Then follows the suggestive word 
H Paid/ 1 and below it arc the words : — 

" I acted upon Goodman's Fields Theatre 
for ye first time in ye year 1 74 1 . 

11 IX Garrick. 

u Somkuskt Draper." 

Mr. Wyndham '$ room has one thing 
about it which distinguishes it from all 
similar apartments in London, It is next 
to the stage, and by pulling up a little red 
blind he can see through an aperlure just 
what is going on, and know exactly when 
his services are required. 

The room is square, divided by a curtain. 
Strange to say, not a single portrait of a 
brother actor is apparent ; but, whilst the 
actor paints his face, he can see many an 
invitation to dinner negligently thrust in 
the edges of the gilt frame. The dressing- 
table which occupies nearly the whole 
length of one tmd of the room is fully 




supplied with countless colours, whilst a 
little tray is positively brimming over with 
all patterns of collar studs. An egg is 
handy ; it is intended for the hair, as Mr. 
Wyndham and wigs have never agreed 1 
There i? a writing-table and a chair or two, 
and an elaborate inlaid rosewood escritoire 
is in a corner, against which Mr. Wyndham 
stands for his portrait in the character of 
Dazzle \ with his flowered waistcoat, frilled 
front, and hanging fob. 

Nor must the apartment in which Mr. 
Wyndhani entertains his friends be passed 
unnoticed. This is a room overlooking 
Piccadilly, and capable of seating some 
twenty or twenty-five persons. It wa> dark 
when we entered, but the next instant the 
electric light was switched on, and an 
apartment was presented which may be 
singled out as the only one of its kind ever 

We were standing in the middle of a first- 
class cabin of a ship. Not a solitary item 
was wanting to complete the illusion. The 
ceiling was built low, and every article of 
furniture was made on sea-going principles, 
even down to the table, The walls are of 
walnut, the panels between being lined 

with exquisite sateen. Though one or two 
windows look out on to Piccadilly Circus, 
there are many port-holes about, all draped 
with old gold plush curtains. The up^ 
hoist cry consists principally of a series of 
settees of light blue plush, which go round 
the sides of the room. 

The looking-glass over the mantelpiece 
is typical of a cabin, It is surrounded, in 
the form of a framework, by a cable, the 
ends of which are fastened off by diminutive 
anchors. Exactly in the centre, in an 
elaborate frame, is the programme used on 
the occasion of the performance of u David 
Garrick/' which Mr. Wyndham and his 
brother actors gave before the Prince and 
Princess of Wales at Sandringham some 
years ago. 

The very lamps suspended from the 
ceiling are made to sway to and fro in case 
of rough and windy weather. The whole 
thing is an ingenious idea, delightfully 
carried out, and to-night Mr. Wyndham *s 
cabin is seen at its best. There is to be a 
supper-party at the conclusion of the per- 
formance downstairs, and the tables for the 
time being are burdened down with every 
luxury. Fairy lamps are peeping out 
amongst the pines and hot-house gripes, 
and the lamps hanging from the roof are 
surrounded with flowers and ferns, whilst 
the electric light shines out brilliantly from 
amongst the blossoms, 


by Google 

Original from 

The Minister s Crime. 

Bv Maclaren Cobban. 

0HERE is really little use in 
my continuing to call," said 
the doctor ; " it will only be 
running you into useless ex- 
pense. I may go on pre- 
scribing and prescribing till 1 
get through the whole pharmacopoeia, but I 
can do him no good ; what he needs is not 
drugs but air— a bracing air. (iut him 
away out of this, and let him run wild in the 
country, or— -if your engagements won't let 
you get to the country — remove to some 
open suburb north or south/' 

before been stricken down with an infant's 
ailment, and though that had passed, he con- 
tinued so w F eak that the doctor had tested 
the soundness of heart and lungs, and the 
outcome of his examination was that the 
only hope for the child was change of 

ib I only wish/' said the father, "that I 
could take him away, I must try, though 
1 don't see at present how I am to do it. 1 ' 

He turned away to the window to hide 
the emotion that would rise to choke him 
when he met the large, weary blue eyes of 
his boy bent on him, as if in appeal that he 


The doctor sat in a little parlour, in a 
shabby - genteel street of close - packed 
middle London. Opposite him was the 
patient, a child of three or four, on his 
mother's knee and clasped about with his 
mother's arms, while his father, the Rev, 
James Murray, stood anxiously listening, 

The boy — the first-born, and the 
child of his parents — had a mum " 


might not be allowed to fade and wither 
and die, like a flower before it has fairly 

M Can't you at least send the boy away 
with his mother ? " asked the doctor* 

"I must try,' 1 said the father without 
turning round. " I must see what can be 

" In tEfficpmriritiaiQ," said the doctor, 




rising, " go on with the cod-liver oil and 
malt extract." 

The doctor went, and still the Rev. 
James Murray stood by the window, striving 
to keep down the emotion that demanded 
to have its way. The wife rose with the 
child in her arms and went close to her 

" James, my dear," said she in a low voice 
(and she took his hand), " don't, my dear ! " 

James turned with the impulse of all his 
passionate love for his wife and child, and 
drew them together to his breast and bent 
his head over them. And one great sob of 
anguish broke from him, and one tear of 
bitter agony sprang in his eye, and fell hot 
upon his wife's hand.. 

u Oh, James, my darling ! " she cried, 
clinging to him. " Don't ! God will be 
good to us ! v 

They stood thus for some seconds, while 
no sound was heard but the loud ticking of 
the cheap lodging-house clock on the 
mantelpiece. The wife sobbed a little in 
sympathy with her husband ; not that she 
considered at all how her own heart was 
wrung, but that she felt how his was. 
Seeing and hearing her, he recovered him- 

u Come, my dear," said he, "this does no 
good. Let us sit down, and see what can 
be arranged." 

He led her back to her seat. He sat 
down beside her, transferred the boy to his 
own lap, and held her hand. 

" Come now, Jim," said he to his boy, 
"how am I going to get you and your 
mammy to the country ? Eh ? " 

" Daddy come, too," said the child, put- 
ting his arm about his father's neck. 

"I would, Jim, I would," said he, with 
the faintest suspicion of a painful catch in 
his voice still ; " but I have no money. 
And I don't know how mammy and you 
are to go, unless some kind friend offers to 
take you in." 

" Oh, James dear ! " exclaimed the wife, 
impulsively, catching her husband's hand 
to her cheek. " It's I who have taken you 
from kind friends ! I am a burden to you, 
and nothing but a burden ! " 

" My dear wife," said he, bending to her, 
"you are the sweetest burden that man 
could bear, and I'd rati er have you than all 
else the world could give." 

" It's beautiful, my dear," said she, " to 
hear you say so. It's like sweet music to 
me ; but it's not true. If you had married 
another — if you had married differently, 

and as you were expected to have married 
— you would not be here now ; and if you 
had a sick boy, like our dear, poor Jim, 
there would have been no difficulty in 
getting to the country, or in getting any- 
thing that was needed for him ! But you 
married me, and — my poor, dear love ! — 
you bear the penalty ! " 

44 Mary," said he, with a certain touch of 
solemnity in his voice, " I have not for one 
instant regretted that we loved each other, 
and married each other, and, whatever may 
come, I shall not regret it. The complete 
love of a woman like you is more precious 
than rubies. Your love, my darling," — 
and he caressed the head crowned with a 
glory of bright hair — " is the joy of my life 
— God forgive me ! " 

She drew again his hand to her cheek, 
and pressed it there, and said no word more. 
And so they sat for a few seconds longer, 
while the vulgar, intrusive clock, with a 
kind of limp in its noisy tick, seemed to say, 
"It's time! It's time!" 

Let us take the opportunity of this pause 
to explain how the Reverend James Murray 
got into the anxious position in which we 
find him. He was a minister of a well- 
known denomination of Nonconformists. 
When he left college he had been reckoned 
a young man of great promise and of con- 
siderable powers of persuasive eloquence, 
and he was expected to become a famous 
preacher. He was invited to b§ the 
minister of a large and wealthy congrega- 
tion in a northern manufacturing town. 
He accepted the invitation, and for two or 
three years he was a great favourite with 
his people ; never, they declared, had they 
heard so fine a preacher (though he was 
sometimes so "fine" that they did not 
understand him), and never had they known 
a better man. His praise was in every- 
body's mouth ; the men admired him and 
the women adored him. But he was a 
bachelor, and there was not an unmarried 
lady in the congregation who did not aspire 
to be his wife, which put him in the 
awkward and invidious position of having 
to prefer one out of many. He astonished 
and offended all the well-to-do ladies, by 
falling in love with and marrying the pretty, 
shy governess of one of the wealthiest 
families — a girl who had not been regarded 
as having the smallest chance of occupying 
the proud position of minister's wife. His 
marriage alienated the women, and through 
them cooled the ardour of the men. The 
situation was strained ; but it might have 




gradually returned to its former easy con- 
dition, had not the minister soon after his 
marriage become what is termed " broad ?J 
in his religious views and uncompromising 
in his expression of them. His people grew 
al ar m ed , an d h i s d e aco n s r e m on s t ra t ed — { wi t h 
less friendliness of feeling, probably, than if 
he had not offended them by his marriage) 
— but the minister declared he could not do 
otherwise than preach what he believed to 
be the truth. Then some people left him, 
and others would not speak to him T and his 
position became so difficult and finally so 
unbearable that he could do nothing but 
send in his resignation. He shook the 
dust and the grime of that northern town 
off his feetj and with sore heart and slender 
purse journeyed to London, He was 
resolved to labour among " the masses" ; if 
the arrogant and wealthy people of the 
north would not hear him, he was sure the 
poor of London, bending beneath the weary 
burden of life, would hear him gladly. He 
had not been in London long 
when he became minister of 
a venerable, half-deserted 
chapel in one of those curi- 
ously quiet corners made by 
the rushing currents and the 
swirling eddies of the life of 
our huge metropolis. It was 
close to the heart of London, 
and yet no one knew it was 
there but the handful of small 
shop-keepers and their fami- 
lies and the few devout and 
destitute old women who made 
up its congregation. These 
poor people were fluttered 
with pride when they got so 
clever and beautiful a preacher 
for their own ; they looked 
to see ere long the old chapel 
crowded with an attentive con- 
gregation as it had been in 
other days ; and the chapel- 
keeper (who was also a painter) 
had put all the magnificent 
hopes of himself and his 
friends in the fresh inscription 
he made on the faded notice- 
board in the fore-court : 
11 Minister, Thk Rev. Jamks 
Murray, M.A.," in letters of gold. 

A year had passed since then t and the 
minister's heart was sad, He had spent 
himself for the benefit of the poor that 
sweltered round that old chapel, and the 
poor did not seem to want him or hh 


ministrations any more than the wealthy : 
they would gather round him if he spread 
a tea for them, but they would not come 
to hear him preach ; so the chapel remained 
as empty as when he first ascended its pulpit. 
Most harassing and wearing anxiety of all, 
he was desperately poor. How he and his 
wife and child had lived during the year it 
would be difficult to tell ; from the treasurer 
of the chapel funds he had received less than 
sixty pounds, and he was in debt for his 
lodgings, in debt to the doctor, his and 
his wife's clothes were become paiiuiiUy 
shabby, and his child was sick unto death. 
What now was to be done ? 
u Jf I had only two or three pounds in 
hand," said he, il or if I could raise them, I 
could send you and Jim away to some quiet 
seaside place ; but everything is gone — 
everything ! " 

{i Don't be cast down, my dear/' said' his 
wife, raising her head, and bravely smiling. 
li It i* always darkest and coldest before the 
dawn. Something may come 
to us just when we least ex- 
pect it/' 

" I am angry with myself," 
said he, " for being so cast 
down ; but I can't help it. I 
care nothing for myself — no- 
thing at all, you know, Mary : 
I have good health, and I can 
live on little, It's seeing you, 
my dear, and poor little Jim, 
going without things you 
ought to have, that goes to 
my heart ; and to know now 
that the boy's life would be 
saved if I could do something 
which I have no hope of 
doing !— oh ! it maddens me ! 
I ask myself over and over 
again, if IVe done wrong to 
anyone that we should be at 
this desperate pass ! " 

" My dear, dear husband ! " 
exclaimed his wife, again 
caressing his hand. " You 
done wrong to anyone ? You 
could not hurt a fly ! We 
must be patient and brave, my 
dear, and bear it. And Jim, 
poor boy, may really be im- 
proving : doctors sometimes make mistakes/ 1 
But it needed only to look at the child's 
thin, limp figure, his transparent skin, and 
his large, sad, lustreless eyes, to be convinced 
that there the doctor had made no mistake. 
The boy would dk unless he could be taken 




into the fresh, stimulating air of the seaside 
or the country. The parents glanced at the 
boy, and then looked involuntarily each into 
the sad face of the other, and turned their 
heads away. 

At that moment there came a loud, 
double " rat-tat " at the street door, which 
made them both jump. Their sitting-room 
was on the ground-floor. The minister 
rose, pale and expectant. He heard no one 
coming to answer the summons. 

u I wonder if it's for me ? " he said. 

li Go and see," said his wife. 

He went into the passage and opened the 

" Murray ? " said the telegraph-boy, and, 
on being answered " Yes," handed a reply- 
paid telegram. 

The minister's fingers trembled so, he 
could scarcely tear the envelope open. He 
took the telegram in to his wife and read it 
aloud : — 

" Can you supply Upton Chapel on Sun- 
day next? Letter to follow" 

That was all, with the name and address 
of the sender appended. Both the minister 
and his wife knew the Upton Chapel, and 
perceived at once that that was the most 
hopeful thing that had happened to them 
for more than a year. 

" Yes" wrote the minister on the reply- 
form, which he handed to the telegraph- 

" Thank God for that, Mary," said he, 
when he returned to her. "Now I can 
send you and Jim away for at least a week ! 
Thank God, my dear ! " 

He kissed her, and then set himself in his 
agitation to walk up down the little room. 

" That will mean five pounds for us, I 
believe ; I don't want to count the fee I shall 
get, but I can't help know. It's a rich con- 
gregation, and I think I must get that. 
And, Mary," he went on, " what if they 
should ask me to be their minister ? You 
know they are without one. Perhaps the 
'letter to follow ' will say something. Upton 
is a beautiful, bracing suburb, and Jim — 
our own little Jim ! " — and he raised him in 
his arms — " would get strong there ! " 

" Ah, my dear," said his wife, " it is too 
tempting. I am afraid to hope. But I am 
sure when once they hear you they will 
like you. Now let us think : what sermons 
will you take ? " 


The "letter to follow" came by a late 
post, but it was only a fuller and politer 

Digitized by Ct< 

version of the telegram. It hoped that Mr. 
Murray would be able to give the Upton 
congregation the pleasure of listening to 
him, it apologised for the short notice (it 
was then Friday), and it invited the minister 
to dine with the writer on Sunday. It thus 
gave no hint that the eye of the Upton 
congregation might be on Mr. Murray, but 
at the same time it did not completely dash 
the hope that it might be. 

On Saturday the minister sat down and 
wrote one sermon expressly for the occasion, 
and with that and another in his pocket he 
set off on Sunday morning to fulfil his 
engagement with some trepidation. 

The aspect of the Upton Chapel was 
itself cheerful and inspiriting. It was nearly 
new, and it was large and handsome in a 
semi-Gothic, open-raftered style ; moreover, 
it was well filled, without being crowded. 
It was a complete contrast to the place 
where Mr. Murray usually ministered, 
where most of the high -backed musty 
pews were quite empty, where a kind of fog 
hung perpetually, and where the minister, 
perched aloft in the pulpit, was as " a voice 
crying in the wilderness." Then in the 
Upton Chapel there was a fine organ, and 
good singing by a well-trained choir. When 
the minister, therefore, rose to preach his 
sermon, it was with a sense of exaltation and 
inspiration which he had not felt for years. 
He delivered himself with effect, and he 
was listened to with wakeful attention and 
apparent appreciation. When the service 
was over, and one leader of the congrega- 
tion after another came to the vestry to 
shake him warmly by the hand and to 
thank him for his u beautiful discourse," he 
thanked God and took courage, and wished 
that his Mary were with him, instead of 
sitting lonely and anxious in their little 
lodging with their sick boy. 

He went in good spirits to the home of 
his host, who was a merchant in the city, 
and he sat down with the family to the 
ample Sunday dinner. He sat next his 
hostess, a gentle, motherly lady, who asked 
him if he was married, and if he had any 
children ; and he told her of Mary and the 
child. His host was a shrewd man, of 
middle age, who had clearly read much and 
thought a good deal, and all his family 
(three grown sons and two daughters) were 
intelligent and cultivated, and took a modest, 
but sufficient, share in the conversation of 
the table, and all listened to such opinions 
as the minister uttered with attention and 
understanding. Mr. Murray, therefore, felt 




he was in a sociable , frank, and refined 
atmosphere, and he thought within himself : 
" What a place of brightness and pleasant 
endeavour this would be after my rude and 
stormy experience of the north and this 
terrible year in London ! And, oh, what a 
haven of rest and health for my darling 
wife and boy ! " 

So it was with unaffected joy, when he 
walked round the large garden with his 
host after dinner, that he heard him 
say : — 

" I think, Mr, Murray, absolute frankness 
in these matters is best. Let me ask you, 
if you were invited to become our minister, 
would you be willing ? Would you like to 
come to us ? " 

" As frankly as you put the question," 
said Mr. Murray, " I answer that, from all 
[ know and have seen of the Upton con- 

gregation, I should 
like to be your min- 
ister. Of course, it 
would be pleasanter 
for me and for all if 
the invitation were 
as nearly unanimous 
as may be." 

u Quite so,' 1 said 
his host, u I ought 
to say that, though 
I am the chairman, 
I have at present no 

authority to speak for any but myself and 
rny family. But we have heard a good 
report of you, Mr. Murray, and I know 
that many of our people have been much 
impressed by you this morning." Then, 
unconsciously, he went on 


to dash .ome- 

what the ministers lively hopes, "There 
is a young man — Mr. Lloyd ; you may 
know him. No ? Well — some of our 
people are very much taken with him. He 
is a brilliant, popular sort of young fellow ; 
but he is young — he has only been jsome 
two years or so a minister— and he is un- 
married, and— and well, I don't want to 
say anything against him — but he is just a 
little flighty, and we older folk doubt how 
we should get on with him. I am glad, 
however, to have your assurance that you 
would come if you were asked/' 

He put his arm within the minister*?, and 
thus they returned into the house. And 
■ — as if that had been a sign of consent 
agreed upon — all the company (and there 
were now a good many guests assembled) 
beamed upon them as they entered the 

"I am so glad," said the eldest daughter 
of the house, bringing Mr. Murray a cup 
of tea and sitting down by him, "to know 
that you are willing to be our minister ! " 

11 How do you know I am ? " he asked, 
with a smile. 

a Oh," she answered with a blush and a 
light laugh, u we arranged for a sign from 
my father, so that we should all know at 
once. You are willing, are you not ? " 
u 1 am," he answered, li quite.' 1 
"And I hope— 1 do hope — you will be 

Presently there came to him an unknown 
young man, and said : " 1 don ? t often go to 
chapel or church, but if you often preach 
nnt'Ti- like this morning's, I should always 
go to hear you, I think." 
That was a flattering tribute, and the 
minister showed his appre- 
ciation of it. 

14 Well, i confess," he 
said, H it is at least pleasant 
' to hear you say so." 

Thus the time passed till 
the hour came for evening 
service. The gas was lit, 
and floor and galleries were 
crowded with people. The 
minister had chosen a simple 
and pathetic theme for his 
eveningdiscourse: "He took 
little children in His arms 
and blessed them ; " and he spoke out of the 
fulness of experience and with the tender 
feeling of the father of a sick child, inso- 
much that all were moved, many even to 
sobs and tears. There was no doubt that he 
carried his audience with him ; and, as in 




as it 
hand ; 

the morning, he had to shake many hands 
and receive many thanks. 

Last of all, his host of the day came and 
asked him to take also the services of the 
next Sunday ; and then he hastened home 
by train to his wife with hopeful, grateful 

"There, Mary, 
my dear/- said he, 
giving her the 
^5 note in an 
had been 
into his 
"that's for you 
and Jim, I'll 
take you both 
down to Margate 
to-morrow ■ — the 
air of Margate 
the most bracing 
in England — and 
you can stay for 
two or three 
weeks at least, 
and the boy will 
begin to grow strong/' 

For answer Mary threw herself into her 
husband's armband sobbed upon his breast. 

" Oh, how good God is, James ! Let us 
be thankful, my dear ! Oh, let us be thank- 
ful !" 

Next day the minister took his wife and 
child to Margate, and placed them in lodg- 
ings on the breezy cliff-top. On Tuesday 
he returned to town ; for he had much to 
do to prepare for his second Sunday at 
Upton and to fill the vacancy at the old, 
deserted chapel. In spite of his occupation 
he began, before the week was out, to feel 
lonely and depressed ; for he and his wife 
had not separated before, save for a day or 
two, since the hour of their marriage. In 
the solitude of his close and dingy lodging 
he restlessly and morbidly meditated on his 
desire to go to Upton, and his chances of 
going. Had he any right to go, with such 
mercenary motives as moved him ? But 
was the health of wife and child a mercen- 
ary motive ? Was the desire to see them 
free from a narrow and blighting poverty a 
mercenary motive ? And had he not other 
motives also — motives of truth and duty ? 
If it was wrong to seek to go to Upton for 
these reasons, then God forgive him ! for 
he could not help longing to go ! 

It was in something of that depressed and 
troubled mood that he went to fulfil his 
second Sunday. The congre 


larger than on the previous Sunday 
morning, and the minister felt that many 
must have come expressly to hear him ; 
and t therefore, he had less brightness and 
freedom of delivery than on the Sunday 
before. He ielt, when the service was over, 
that he had not acquitted himself well, and 

he began anew 
to torture himself 
with the thoughts 
of what would 
become of Mary 
and Jim if he 
should miss his 
chance of Upton. 
To add dis- 
comfort to dis- 
comfort, and con* 
straint to con- 
straint, he was 
introduced in the 
vestry to the 
LU^_*4S Reverend Mr. 

Lloyd — his rival, 
as he felt bound 
to consider him ; 
and to his host for the day — a stout, loud- 
spoken, rather vulgar-looking man, who 
dropped his h's. 

When they reached the home of his host 
(who clearly was a wealthy man, for the 
house was large and furnished with sub- 
stantial splendour), he discovered that his 
rival also was to be a guest. That did not 
serve to put him more at his ease, the less 
that he perceived host and rival seemed on 
very friendly, if not familiar, terms. They 
called one another ik Lloyd ?I and "Brown," 
and slapped each other on the back* 
" Brown" said something, and "Lloyd" 
flatly and boisterously contradicted and 
corrected him, and then ki Brown" laughed 
loudly, and seemed to like it. Thus dinner 
wore away, while Mr, Murray said little 
save to his hostess — a pale, thin, and some- 
what depressed woman, grievously over- 
burdened, it was clear j with a " jolly " 
husband, and a loud and healthy young 
family. After dinner "Lloyd" romped 
and rollicked in and out of the house with 
the troop of noisy children, while Mr. Murray 
kept his hostess and her very youngest 
company, and the attention of liis host was 
divided between duty and 
duty of sitting by his 
and the inclination of 
* Lloyd/" 

u Look at him ! t? he 

inclination — the 

wife and guest, 

k ' larking with 

was " Isn't he a jolly fellow ? 

exclaimed once. 
I do think he's a 




capital fellow ! Oh, yes ; and he has a 
nice mind." 

It was all very depressing and saddening 
to Mr. Murray, though he appeared only to 
be very quiet. For he thought: "A large 
congregation like this of Upton must 
necessarily have more people like these 
Browns than like my friends of last 
Sunday ; and it must, therefore, needs be 
that this Mr. Lloyd — who has no harm in 
him, I daresay, but who is little more than 
a rough, noisy, presumptuous boy not long 
from school — it must be that he should be 
preferred by the majority to me. I may as 
well, then, give up all hope of coming here. 
But what then of Mary and the boy — the 
boy ? " 

He was scarcely more satisfied with 
himself after the evening service (though he 
held the attention again of a crowded 
congregation), and he went back to his 
lonely lodging with a sore and doubting 
heart. He wrote, however, cheerfully (he 
thought) to his wife ; but next day she 
replied to his letter and showed that his 
assumed cheerfulness had not deceived the 
watchful sense of love. 

u You are not in good spirits, my dear/' 
she wrote ; " don't pretend you are. If 
you are not better to-day I shall come home 
to you, though little Jim is beginning to 
show the benefit of the change." 

" Poor little chap ! " the father thought. 
14 He is beginning to improve. They must 
not come back, and I must not go down to 
them. My glum face would frighten Mary, 
and I should have to tell her all my fears. 
Besides, I cannot afford it. Oh, that it 
might be settled I'm to go to Upton ! " 

That was the refrain of his thoughts all 
that day. " Oh, that I might go to 
Upton ! " It was a kind of prayer, and 
surely as worthy a prayer, and springing 
from as pure and loving a desire as any 
prayer that is uttered. He could do nothing 
more, however, to attain the desired end ; 
he could only wait. Monday passed, and 
Tuesday, and still no word from Upton. 
On Wednesday came a letter from his first 
host — the Chairman of Committee. It 
contained little, but that little was charged 
with meaning and anxiety for the minister. 
Nothing, it declared, was yet absolutely de- 
cided ; but on Thursday evening there was 
to be held a certain debate in the Lecture- 
room, in which it had been resolved that 
both Mr. Murray and Mr. Lloyd should be 
asked to take part. 

44 1 am not officially instructed," con- 

Digiiized byL.i* 

tinuedthe writer, "to say this to you, but I 
think I ought to tell you that there is a dis- 
position among a good many to form their 
final choice for you or for Mr. Lloyd, on the 
conclusion of the debate." 


It was put gently and carefully, but the 
meaning of the communication to the 
minister plainly was that it had come to a 
contest between him and the young Mr. 
Lloyd, and that whichever should acquit him- 
self in this debate most to the satisfaction 
and admiration of the audience would 
straightway be chosen as minister. 

It was a terrible situation for the minister 
— how terrible none but himself knew, and 
none, not even the wife of his bosom, could 
ever sufficiently understand. He was a bad 
debater, and, worse than that, he was the 
most nervous, hesitating, and involved ex- 
tempore speaker in the world. His sermons 
and discourses were always written, but he 
delivered them so well that very few would 
have guessed that he had manuscript before 
him. With his writing in his hand he was 
easy, vigorous, and self-possessed ; but when 
he had to speak extempore a panic of fear 
shook him ; he had neither ideas nor words, 
and he was completely lost. 

It was simply a question of nerves with 
him, and whenever he knew beforehand 
that he was expected to speak extempore 
the strain upon him was crueller than man 
can tell. The strain imposed now upon a 
body weakened by the past years privations 
and anxiety could not have been crueller if 
he had been under sentence of death ; and, 
indeed, life or death seemed to his over- 
wrought nerves to hang upon the issue. If 
he failed, and he feared he Avould fail, fail 
signally, for he did not doubt but that the 
young and boisterous Mr. Lloyd was with- 
out nerves, and was a glib and self-confident 
talker — then Upton was lost, and his wife 
was condemned for Heaven alone knew how 
long to grievous poverty, and his child to 
a lingering death. If he succeeded — but he 
had no reason to hope he would — then Upton 
was won, and with it life and health and 
happiness for those he loved. 

It was Wednesday morning when he 
got the letter, and all that day he con- 
sidered, with a frequent feeling of panic at 
the heart, and a constant fluttering of the 
nerves, what he could possibly do to ensure 
success. He thought he would write down 
something on the subject of the debate, 
and commit ,4ft-, £pt memory. He had sat 




down and written a little, when he be- 
thought him that he did not know when he 
would be called upon to speak, nor whether 
he might not have to expressly answer 
someone. He threw down the pen, and 
groaned in despair ; there was nothing to 
be done ; he must trust to the inspiration 
and self-possession of the moment. 

When he went to bed his sleep was a 
succession of ghastly nightmares. He 
dreamt his wife and child were struggling 
and choking in a dark and slimy sea, that 
Mr. Lloyd stood aloof unconcernedly look- 
ing on, and that he, the husband and father, 
lay unable to stir hand or foot or tongue ! 
Then he awoke with a sharp cry, trembling 
with dread and bathed in perspiration, and 
found, lo ! it was but a dream ! 

So the night passed and the day eame 
with its constant wearing fear and anxiety. 
He could not cat, he could not drink, he 
could not rest ; and thus the day passed and 
the hour came when he must set out for the 
fatal, meeting. As he passed along the 
street people paused to glance at him : he 
appeared so pale and scared. 

I am afraid I can do little ; I am the worst 
extempore speaker you can imagine.*' 

M Is that so ? " The friend turned quickly 
and considered him. " 1 should not have 
thought so. Ah, well, never mind, 11 

But the minister felt that his friend's hope 
of his success was considerably shaken. 

The chief persons of the assembly were 
gathered about a table at the upper end of 
the room. The chairman introduced the 
matter for debate ; one man kkc and spoke 
on the affirmative side, and another rose 
and spoke on the negative. The minister 
listened, but he scarce knew what was said ; 
he drank great gulps of water to moisten 
his parched mouth (which, for all the water, 
remained obstinately dry) and he felt his 
hour was come. He glanced round him, 
but saw only shadows of men. One only 
he saw — the man opposite him, the very 
young and boisterous Mr. Lloyd, who clap- 
ped his hands and lustily said u Hear, 
hear ! " when anything was said of which 
he approved or which he wished to deride. 
The minister's eyes burned upon him till he 
seemed to assume threatening, demoniac 


When he entered the Lecture-room at 
Upton he was met by his friend, the Chair- 
man of Committee, who looked at him and 
said : — 

" Don't you feel well, Mr* Murray ? You 
look very faint and pale. Let me get you 
a glass of wine." 

4i No, thank you," said the minister, l< I 
am really quite well." 

"We shall have a good debate, I think," 
said his friend, then leading the way forward. 

11 1 hope so," said the minister, "though 

proportions as the boastful and 
blatant Apollyon whom Christian 
fought in the Valley. 

At length young Mr. Lloyd rose, 
large and hairy, and then the minister listened 
with all his ears. He missed nothing the 
young man uttered— none of the foolish 
and ignorant opinions, none of the coarse 
and awkward phrases — and as he listened 
amazement seized him, and then auger T and 
he said to himself ; " This is the man, this is 
the conceited and ignorant smatterer, who 
would supplant mc y and rob my wife and child 
of health and happiness ! " He rose at once 
in his anger to answer him, to smash and 
pulverise him. Wtttfcrhe said in his anger 




he did not know ; but when he had finished 
he sat down and buried his face in hi* hands 
and was sure he had made an egregious ass 
of himself. Ho felt very faint and drank 
mare water, and it was all over. In a dazed 
a n A hurried 
fashion he said 
his adieux and 
went away to the 
train, convinced 
he should never 
see Upton more. 

He had entered 
a carriage and 
sunk back with 
body exhausted, 
but with brain on 
fire ; the train 
was starting, when 
the door was flung 
open, and Mr, 
Lloyd burst in 
and sat down 
opposite him, 

"Halloa!** he 
cried. i( I did not 
think to find you 
here. What a 
splendid debate 
it was, wasn't it ? ?1 

He did not wait for an answer, but hurried 
i n in his loquacity, u 1 think I woke them 
up. They need waking up, and I'll do it 
when I'm their minister/ 1 

It clearly did not occur to him that his 
vi$*&-vis might be minister instead ; and 
Mr, Murray, in his exaggerated dread and 
humility, thought that the question who was 
to be minister must really have been settled 
before the young man left, Mr. Murray 
^aid nothing, but that did not embarrass 
Mr. Lloyd. 

"I shall soon settle, 1 ' he continued, "the 
hash of some of those frightened old fogies 
who want things to go on in the old, hum- 
drum way. It's a fine place, and a magnifi- 
cent chapel, and can be made a popular 
causer and Til make it, too, when Im 
among them. Good, rousing, popular stuff 
— that's the thing to make a success ; don't 
you think so, Murray ? ' T 

11 No doubt/ 1 said Murray, scarce knowing 
or caring what he said in his bitterness and 
despair ; M only make noise enough. '* 

Young Mr, Lloyd merely laughed boister- 
ously, and Mr. Mm ray only ki:pi saying to 
himself: " This is the man who has robbed 
me of my chance, and my wife and child of 
health and happiness ! But for this ignorant, 
Digitized by v.** 


conceited, and incompetent braggart / 
should be minister I n 

And incontrolhble dislike — and in his 
nervous, over-strained condition, hatred even 
— rose in him against the young man. 

As Lloyd went 
on with his ding- 
dong, maddening 
talk, Mr. Murray, 
who could have 
cried aloud in his 
pain and despair 
of the loss he 
believed he had 
endured, observed 
absently that the 
inner handle of 
the door showed 
that the catch 
was open. The 
train slowed 
down, for some 
reason, in the 
middle of a 
tunnel, and Lloyd 
rose in his lusty, 
boisterous way, 
banged down the 
window, and 
looked out. 
£l These trains/* quoth he, i( are confound- 
edly slow." 

Mr. Murray kept his eye on the brass 
handle nf the door* It was a dangerous 
position for Mr* Lloyd ; if he leaned too 
heavily, or if the train went on with a jerk, 
he was likely to be thrown out. Should he 
warn him ? Should he say, " Take care : 
you may fall in your rashness." Yet why 
did not the foolish, unobservant young man 
see for himself the condition of the door ? 

Still, the handle of the door fascinated 
the minister's eye, and he kept silence. At 
that moment the train started off again 
with a jerk and a screech ; the door swung 
open, and Lloyd iell, and as the minister 
put out his hands and head to catch him, 
with a horrified l( Oh ! f1 he saw the fiery 
eye of a train rushing down upon him from 
the opposite direction. It came on with 
thunderous roar and passed, and the 
minister sank back in the carriage alone , 
and fainted ! 


Hk came to himself only outside the 
London termiiuWat which he had to arrive, 
when the train drew up, and a man came 
along for the collection of tickets. In a half 




dazed condition (which the ticket-collector 
probably consiiered intoxication), he sur- 
rendered his ticket without a word, and 
then the train went on, and presently 
he was on the platform, stumbling out 
of the station on his way home, but no 
more in touch with the people and things 
he passed among than a man in a dream. 

What had he done ? What had he done ? 
To what a depth of misery and infamy had 
he cast himself ? It was impossible to sound 
the black bottom of it. 

4i I have slain a man to my wounding ; a 
young man to my hurt*" 

The old words rose in his mind unbidden 
— rose and sank, rose and sank again. He 
felt that the young man must be lying 
crushed across those rails. And it was his 
doing : he had not warned the young man 
of his danger ; he had consented to his 
death, and, therefore, he had killed him ! 
Oh, the horror ! Oh, the pity of it ! 

When he reached his lonely lodging it 
was late, and he was dull and tired. He 
was conscious of having walked a long way 
round, and to and fro, but where he did 
not know. The strain was now off his 
nerves, and dull, dead misery was upon him. 
He mechanically undressed, and went to 
bed and sank to sleep at once ; but his sleep 
was unrefreshing : it was troubled all the 
night through with alarms and terrors, with 
screeching and roaring trains, and falling 
bodies ; and when in the morning he was 
fully awake, his misery settled upon him 
like a dense fog of death. 

The morning postman brought a letter 
fropi his wife. She was in good spirits, and 
the boy was improving rapidly. Then tears 
— bitter, bitter tears ! — came to his relief, 
and he sobbed in agony. What had possessed 
him ? What fiend of anger and hate had 
entered into him to make him commit that 
deed ? He was aghast at the atrocious 
possibilities of his own nature. He felt as 
if he could not look in the face of his wife 
again, or again venture to take her in his 
arms. Would she not shrink from him 
with horror when she knew ? And would 
not his boy — his little Jim ! — when he grew 
up (if he ever grew up) be ashamed of the 
father who had so dishonoured his name ? 

" Oh, my God ! M he cried in his misery 
and grief. "Let mc bear the utmost punish- 
ment of my sin, but spare tlicm ! Punish 
not the innocent with the guilty ! Let my 
dear wife and child live in peace and honour 
before Thee ! " 

He could not eat a morsel of breakfast 

Digitized by l^OOSlc 

— he had scarcely tasted food or drink for 
two whole days — and he could not rest in 
the lodgings. He wandered out with his 
load of misery upon him. He was a man 
who seldom read the newspapers, and he 
did not think of buying one now, nor did 
it even occur to him to scan the contents- 
bills set outside the newsvendors' shops. 
He merely wandered on and round, re- 
volving the horrible business that had 
brought him so low, and then he wandered 
back in the afternoon faint with exhaustion. 

When he entered the sitting-room he saw 
a letter set for him on the mantelpiece. It 
was from his friend at Upton, and it de- 
clared with delight that, after the stirring 
debate on Thursday evening, he (Murray) 
had bfeen " unanimously elected " minis- 
ter. That was the most unlooked-for stroke 
of retribution ! To think that he had com- 
mitted his sin — nay, his crime ! — in head- 
long wantonness ! To think that at the 
very moment when he had committed it he 
was being elected to the place which he had 
believed the young man had been chosen 
to fill ! Bitter, bitter was his punishment 
beginning to be ; for, of course, he could 
not, with the stain of crime on his soul if 
not on his hands, accept the place — not 
even to save his wife and child from 
want ! 

The writer further said that it was de- 
sired he (Murray) should occupy next 
Sunday the pulpit which was henceforward 
to be his. What was to be done ? Clearly 
but one thing : at all costs to occupy the 
pulpit on Sunday morning, to lay bare his 
soul to the people who had * 4 unanimously ,J 
invited him, and to tell them he could 
never more be minister either there or else- 

He sat thus with the letter in his hand, 
when the door opened and his wife cam< in 
with the boy asleep in her arms : he had 
omitted to write to her since Wednesday. 
He rose to his feet, and stood back against 
the fire-place. 

" Oh. my#poor dear ! ,? she cried, when 
she saw him. 4i How terribly ill you look ! 
Why didn't you tell me ? I felt there was 
something wrong with you when I had no 
word." She carefully laid the sleeping 
child on the couch and returned to embrace 
her husband. 

''Don't, Mary!" said he, keeping her 

14 Oh, James dear ! M she said, clasping 
her hands. u What has gone wrong ? You 
look worn to dei.t.h ! " 




il Everything's gone wrong, Mary!" be 
answered. *vMy whole life's gone wrong ! t? 

4t What do you mean ? " she asked in 
breathless terror. ll What have you in your 

He held out to her the letter, and sat 
down and covered his face. 

II Oh, but this is good news, James ! ? ' 
she exclaimed, "You arc elected minister 
at Upton ! " 

II I can't go, Mary ! I can no longer be 
minister there or anywhere ! " 

"James, my darling!" She knelt be- 
side hini t and put her arms about him. 
" Something has happened to you ! Tell 
me what it is ! " But he held his peace, 
41 Remember, my dear, that we are all the 
world to each other ; remember that when 
we were married we said we should never 
have any secret from each other ! Tell rue 
your trouble, my dear ! " 

He could not resist her appeal : he told 
her the whole story, 

** My poor, dear love ! " she cried. M How 


terribly tried you have been! And I did 
not know it ! + * 

i( Shrink from you, my dear husband ? T? 
she demanded. " How can you ask nie ? 
Oh, my darling ! Tl 

She kissed his hands and his face, and 
covered him with her love and wept over 

They sat in silence for a while, and then 
he told her what he proposed to do. She 
agreed with him that that was the proper 

11 We must do the first thing that is right, 
whatever may happen to ourselves. Write 
and say that you do not feel you can take 
more than the morning service. I'll go 
with you, and you shall do as you say — and 
the rest is with God." 

Thus it was arranged. And on Sunday 
morning they set off together for Upton, 
leaving the boy in the care of the landlady. 
They had no word to say to each other in 
the train* but they held close each other's 
hand. They avoided greetings, and intro- 
ductions, and felicitations save from one or 
two by keeping close in the vestry till the 
hour struck, and the 
attendant came to usher 
the minister to the pulpit. 
He went out and up the 
pulpit stairs with a firm 
step, but his face was very 
pale, his lips were parched, 
and his heart was thump- 
ing hard, till he felt as if 
it would burst. The first 
part of the service was 
gone through, and the 
minister rose to deliver 
his sermon. He gave out 
his text, u And Cain 
said untu the Lord^ i My 
punishment in greater 
than I can beat ! ' Tl and 
glanced round upon the 
congregation, who sat up 
wondering what was to 
come of that- He re- 
peated it, and happening 
to look down, saw seated 
immediately below tlte 
pulpit, looking as well 
and self-satisfied as u^ual, 
the young man whom he 
'had imagined crushed in 
the tunnel ! The revul- 
sion of feeling wa^ too 
great ; the minister put up his hand to his 
head, with a cry something between sob and 

11 And you don't shrink from me, Mary ?" sigh, tottered, and fell back ! 
said he. Th ^lffMTTOlx1l eM]M ystle of di ^ 




may throughout the congregation. The 
minister's wife was up the pulpit stairs in 
an instant, and she was followed by the 
chairman and the young Mr. Lloyd. 
Between them they carried the minister 
down into the vestry, where a few others 
presently assembled. 

14 Will you run for a doctor, Mr. Lloyd ? M 
said the chairman. 

Hearing the name " Lloyd, " and seeing a 
man in minister's attire, Mrs. Murray 
guessed the truth at once. 

" I think," said she, u there is no need for 
a doctor, my husband has only fainted. He 
has been terribly worried all the year^and 
the last week or two especially has told on 

M I thought the other night," said the 
chairman, il that he looked ill/ T 

u He has not been well since,'' said she ; 

and she continued, turning to Mr. Lloyd, 
u I believe he was the more upset that he 
thought an accident had happened to you in 
the train, Mr. Lloyd. T ' 

u Oh," said the young man, i( it was 
nothing. It really served me right for 
leaning against a door that was unlatched. 
I picked myself up all right," 

The chairman and the others stared ; 
they clearly had heard nothing of that* 

li He is coming round," said the wife. u If 
someone will kindly get me a cab, I'll take 
him home." 

That is the story of the unconfessed crime 
of the minister of Upton Chapel, who is 
to-day known as a gentle, sweet, and some- 
what shy man, good to all, and especially 
tender and patient with all wrong-doers- 


by Google 

Original from 

At the Children s Hospital. 


;E want to move Johnny to 
a place where there are 
none but children ; a place 
£et up on purpose for sick 
children j where the good 
doctors and nurses pass 
their lives with children, talk to none but 
children, touch none but children, comfort 
and cure none but children/ 1 

Who does not remember that chapter in 
(i Our Mutual Friend" in which Charles 
Dickens described Johnny's removal — with 
his Noah's Ark and his noble wooden steed 
— from the care of poor old Betty to that 
of the Hospital for Sick Children in Great 
Ormond- street ? Johnny is dead — he died 
after bequeathing all his dear possessions 
the Noah's Ark, the gallant horse, and the 
yellow bird, to his little sick neighbour — 
and his large-hearted creator is dead too ; 
but the Hospital in Great Ormond- street 
still exists — in a finer form than Dickens 
knew it— and still receives sick children to 
be comforted and cured by its gentle 
nurses and good doctors, 

^iiized by Google 

And this is how the very first Hospital 
for Children came to be founded, Some 
fifty years ago, Dr. Charles West, a physi- 
cian extremely interested in children and 
their ailments, was walking with a com- 
panion along Great Ormond -street. He 
stopped opposite the stately old mansion 
known as No. 49, which was then "to 
let," and said, " There I That is the future 
Children's Hospital. It can be had cheap, 
I believe, and it is in the midst of a district 
teeming with poor." The house was known 
to the Doctor as one with a history. It 
had been the residence of a great and 
kindly man — the famous Dr. Richard 
Mead, Court Physician to Oueen Anne and 
George the First, and it is described by a 
chronicler of the time as a " splendidly-fitted 
mansion, with spacious gardens looking out 
into the fields" of St. Pancras. Another 
notable tenant of the mansion was the Rev. 
Zachary Macaulay, father of Lord Macaulay, 
and a co-worker with Clarkson and Wil- 
berforce for the abolition of slavery. 

Dr. Charles West pushed his project for 
Original from 




turning the house into a hospital for sick 
children with such effect that a Provisional 
Committee was formed, which held its first 
recorded meeting on January 30, 1850, 
under the presidency of the philanthropic 
banker Joseph Hoare. As a practical out- 
come of these and other meetings, the 
mansion and grounds were bought, and the 
necessary alterations were made to adapt 
them for their purpose. A " constitution " 
also was drawn up — which obtains to this 
day — and in that it was set down that the 
object of the Hospital was threefold : — " (1) 
The Medical and Surgical Treatment of 
Poor Children ; (2) The Attainment and 
Diffusion of Knowledge regarding the 
Diseases of Children ; and (3) The Train- 
ing of Nurses for Children. " So, in the 
February of 1852 — exactly nine-and-thirty 
years ago — the Hospital for Sick Children 
was opened, and visitors had displayed to 
them the curious sight of ailing children 
lying contentedly in little cots in the 
splendid apartments still decorated with 
flowing figures and scrolls of beautiful blue 
on the ceiling, and bright shepherds and 
shepherdesses in the panels of the walls — 
rooms where the beaux and belles of Oueen 
Anne and King George, in wigs and 
buckle-shoes, in frills and furbelows, had 
been wont to assemble ; where the kindly 
Dr. Mead had learnedly discussed with his 
brethren, and where Zachary Macaulay had 
presided at many an anti-slavery meeting. 
It was, indeed, a haunted house that the 
poor sick children had been carried into — 
haunted, however, not by hideous spirits of 
darkness and crime, but by gentle memories 
of Christian charity and loving-kindness. 

For some time poor people w r ere shy of 
the new hospital. In the first month only 
eight cots were occupied out of the ten 
provided, and only twenty-four out-patients 
were treated. y The treatment of these, 
however, soon told upon the people, and 
by and by more little patients were 
brought to the door of the Hospital than 
could be received. The place steadily 
grew in usefulness and popularity, so that 
in five years 1,483 little people occupied its 
cots, and 39,300 passed through its out- 
patient department. But by 1858 the 
hearts of the founders and managers mis- 
gave them ; for funds had fallen so low 
that it was feared the doors of the Hospital 
must be closed. No doubt the anxious and 
terrible events of the Crimean War and the 
Indian Mutiny had done much to divert 
public attention from the claims of the little 

Digitized by G< 

folk in 49, Great Ormond-street, but the 
general tendency of even kindly people to 
run after new things and then to neglect 
them had done more. It was then that 
Charles Dickens stood the true and prac- 
tical friend of the Hospital. He was ap- 
pealed to for the magic hdp of his pen and 
his voice. He wrote about the sick chil- 
dren, and he spoke for them at the annual 
dinner of 1858 in a speech so potent to 
move the heart and to untie the purse- 
strings that the Hospital managers smiled 
again ; the number of cots was increased to 
44, two additional physicians were ap- 
pointed, and No. 48 was added to No. 49, 
Great Ormond-street. 

From that date the institution prospered 
and grew, till, in 186^, Cromwell House, at 
the top of Highgate-hill -(of which more 
anon) was opened as a Convalescent Branch 
of the Hospital, and in 1872 the first stone 
of the present building was laid by the 
Princess of Wales, in the spacious garden of 
Number Forty-Nine The funds, however, 
were insufficient for the completion of the 
whole place, and until i88q the Hospital 
stood with but one wing. Extraordinary 
efforts were made to collect money, with 
the result that last year the new wing was 
begun on the site of the two " stately man- 
sions " which had been for years the home 
of the Hospital. With all this increase, and 
the temptation sometimes to borrow rather 
than slacken in a good work, the managers 
have never borrowed nor run into debt. 
They have steadily believed in the excellent 
advice which Mr. Micawber made a present 
of to his young friend Copperfield, " Annual 
income twenty pounds, annual expenditure 
nineteen nineteen six : result, happiness. 
Annual income twenty pounds, annual ex- 
penditure twenty pounds ought and six : 
result, misery"; and, as a consequence, 
they are annually dependent on the volun- 
tary contributions of kind-hearted people 
who are willing to aid them to rescue ailing 
little children from u the two grim nurses, 
Poverty and Sickness." 

But, in order to be interested in the work 
of the Hospital and its little charges, there 
is nothing like a personal visit. One 
bitterly cold afternoon a little while before 
Christmas,we kept an appointment with the 
courteous Secretary, and were by him led 
past the uniformed porter at the great door, 
and up the great staircase to the little 
snuggery of Miss Hicks, the Lady Superin- 
tendent. On our way we had glimpses 
through glass doors into clean, bright 




With a glance at the chubby, convalescent 
boy, " Martin," asleep in his arm-chair before 
the fire — whom we leave our artist com- 
panion to sketch — wc pass upstairs to 
another medical ward, which promises to 
be the liveliest of all; for, as soon as we are 

ushered through the door, a cheery voice 
rings out from somewhere near the stover — 

"Hal!oa, man ! Ha y ha f ha! 1 ' 

We are instantly led with a laugh to the 
owner of the voice, who occupies a cot 
over against the fire, He Is called " Freddy/' 
and he is a merry little chap, with dark 
hair, and bright twinkling eyes — so young 
and yet so active that he is tethered by the 
waist to one of the bars at the head of his 
bed lest he should fling himself out upon 
the floor — so young, and yet afflicted with 
so old a couple of ailments. He is being 
treated for " chronic asthma and bron- 
chitis," He is a child of the slums ; he is 
by nature strong and merry, and— poor 
little chap ! — he has been brought to this 
pass merely by a cold steadily and ignorantly 
neglected. Let us hope that " Freddy " 
will be cured, and that he will become a 
sturdy and useful citizen, and keep ever 
bright the memory of his childish experi- 
ence of hospital care and tenderness. 

Next to " Freddy M is another kind of 
boy altogether. He has evidently been the 
pet of his mother at home, as he is the pet 
of the nurses here. He is sitting up in his 
cot, playing in a serious, melancholy way the doctor come to me on Kismas morning 

with a set of tea-things. He is very pretty- 
He has large eyes and a mass of fair curls, 
and he looks up in a pensive way that 
makes the nurses call him u Bubbles," after 
Sir John Millar 1 well-known picture-poster. 
He has a knack of saying droll things with 
an unconscious seriousness which makes 
them doubly amusing. He is shy, however, 
ami it is difficult to engage him in con- 
versation. We try to wake his friendliness 
by presenting him with a specimen of a 
common coin of the realm, but for some 
time without effect* For several 
seconds he will bend his powerful 
mind to nothing but the impor- 
tant matter of finding a receptacle 
for the coin that will be safe, and 
that will at the same time con- 
stantly exhibit it to his delighted 
eye, These con- 
ditions being at 
--w. length fulfilled , he 

* .^ "■<■'- condescends to 

* listen to our ques- 

*■ tions. 

Does he like 
being in the Hos- 
pital ? 

" Yes. But I'm 
goin' 'ome on 
Kismas Day, My 
mother's eomin 1 for me;' 

We express our pleasure at the news. He 
looks at us with his large, pensive eyes, and 
continues in the same loWj slow, pensive 
tone : — 

"Will the doctor let me? Eh? Will 
he let me ? IVe nearly finished my 
medicine. Will I have to finish it all ? ,n 

We reluctantly utter the opinion that 
very likely he will have to " finish it all " 
in order to get w T ell enough to go home. 
And then after another remark or two we 
turn away to look at other little patients ; 
but from afar we can see that the child is 
still deeply pondering the question. Pre- 
sently we hear the slow, pensive voice 
call : — 
" I say ! " 

We go to him, and he inquires: M Is 
Kismas in the shops ? Eh ? Is there toys 
and fings ? H 

We answer that the shops are simply 

overflowing with Christmas delights, and 

again we retire ; but by and by the slow, 

pensive voice again calls :— 

" I say ! * 

Again we return, and he says : u Will 





and say, i Cheer up, Tommy ; you're goin 1 
'ome to-day ? > Will he ? Eh'? " 

Poor little boy I Though the nurses 
love him, and though he loves his nurse?, 
he longs for his mother and the M Kismas 1 ' 
joys of home. And though he looks so 
healthy, and has only turned three years, 
he has incipient consumption, and his 
"Kisrnas " must be spent either here or in 
the Convalescent Home on the top of 

It is impossible, and needless, to go 
round all the little beds; it is a constant 
talc of children innocently and cheerfully 
bearing the punishment of the neglect, 
the mistakes, or the sins of their parents, 
or of society. Here is a mere baby suffer- 
ing from tuberculosis because it has been 
underfed ; there, and there, and there are 
children, boys and girls— girls more fre- 
quently — afflicted with chorea, or St. Vitus' 
dance, because their weak nerves have 
been overwrought, either with fright at 
home or in the streets, or with overwork 
or punishment at school ; and so on, and 
so on, runs the sad and weary tale. But, 
before we leave the ward, let us note one 
bright and fanciful little picture, crowning 
evidence of the kindness of the nurses to 
the children, and even of their womanly 
delight in them. Near the cheerful glow 
of one of the faces of the double-faced 
stove, in a fairy-like bassinelte — a special gift 
to the ward— sit 4l Robin ,? and ■' Carrie," 

two babies decked out as an extraordinary 
treat in gala array of white frocks and 
ribbons. These gala dresses, it must be 
chronicled, are bought by the nurses 1 own 
money and made in the nurses' own time 
for the particular and Sunday decoration 
of their little charges. On the other side 
of the stove sits Charlie, a pretty little 
fellow, on his bed- sofa. 

And so we pass on to the surgical wards ; 
but it is much the same tale as before. 
Only here the children are nn the whole 
older, livelier, and hungrier* We do not 
wish to harrow the feelings of our readers, 
so we shall not take them round the cots 
to point out the strange and wonderful 
operations the surgeons have performed, 
We shall but note that the great proportion 
of these cases are scrofulous of some order 
or other — caries, or strumous disease of the 
bones, or something similar ; and. finally, 
we shall point out one little fellow, helpless 
as a dry twig, but bold as a lion, at least if 
his words are to be trusted* He has caries, 
or decay, of the backbone. He has been 
operated upon, and he is compelled to lie 
flat on his back always without stirring. 
He could not have tackled a black-beetle, 
and yet one visitors' day the father of his 
neighbour having somehow offended him 




of the very few children who are afraid of a 
doctor, and he sees men there so seldom 
that every man appears to him a doctor: 
hence his cry. We consider him from afar 
off, so as not to distress him unduly ; and 
wc learn that he is commonly known as 
14 Dotty,"' partly because he is small and 
partly because* his wits are temporarily 
somewhat obscured* His chief affliction, 
however , is that he has curiously crooked 
feet which the surgeon is trying to set 

straight. Over against him, on the couch, 
sits a Boy of Mystery. He is called 
li Harry " (there is nothing mysterious 
about that), but some months ago he swal- 
lowed an old copper coin, which he still 
keeps concealed somewhere in his interior. 
The doctors are puzzled, but the Boy of 
Mystery sits unconcerned. With one final 
glance round and a word to a girl who is 
reading '* The Nursery Alice ■' to a younger 
girl, we turn away, and the door closes 
upon the children. 

But we cannot leave them without a final 

ward to our readers. Of all possible forms 

of charitable work there is surely none 

better or more hopeful than that which 

is concerned with children, and 

especially that which is anxious about 

the health of children. More than 

one-third of the annual deaths in 

London are the unnatural deaths of 

innocent young folk. " The two grim 

nurses, Poverty and Sickness," said 

Dickens in his famous speech, l4 who bring 

these children before you, preside over 

their births, rock their wretched cradles, 

nail down their little coffins, pile up the 

earth above their graves," Have we no 

duty towards them as fellow-citizens ? If 

we pity their hard condition, and admire 

the patience and fortitude with which they 

endure suffering, then let us show our pity 

and our admiration in such practical ways 

as are open to us. 


sntkancl; tiiUMHtixQniftinal from 


proposition which was un- 
tenable, and which, he 
thought, was contradicted 
by universal experience. 
(Cheers.) In fact, it was 
a Bill based on the as- 
sumed hostility between 

2h4*> . SiUuy Jt tuA. Jt 6+frtr pty*****^ . 

Facsimile of the Notes of a Speech by John Bright. 

This month we present our readers with a curiosity — the fac-simile notes of John Bright's famous speech 
on Women's Suffrage, in the House of Commons, April 26, 1876. Hr. J. A. Bright, M.P., to whose kindness 
we owe them, believes that no others by his father are extant, so t\at the interest of the present is unique. 
To allow the reader to compare the speech, as spoken, with the nrtes, we add an abstract of the Times report 
next morninj. 

Mr. Bright said it was / 

with extreme reluctance »*"* 

that he took part in this * f u * « *. « xv s 

debate. ... The Bill UCuU^utc . /$C? htift $*»k . /*-#. C*JJtU*& 

seemed to him based on a ■ /" „ J mmm • 

t,l,ty between ^i4*U **L* ^AY<£ &6?U« «^ - ' &M*A4m / 

the sexes. (Hear.) . . . ««—————————— ^ £^ tS&i* AAJ** J 

Men were represented as .^ _^ 

ruling even to the length 

of tyranny, and women 

were represented as suf- - # # -, 

^fengttfN^deVW^ . +fU*f <4/*&- * ^uJ^^ T. 

grading slavery. (Hear.) «""*"~ ^ » , .* • 

. . . This was not said of «*, . * J j/U/AJt A^ - ^ 4*«/ASAt ** ««V**^** 

women in savage nations, *5**f *4rf J / jf l % . «m^ w 

but it was said of women ^ m m M / ' s £ * /— I** > jf* Am * —~ *. 

in general in this civilised &*&?%*> • A&*V**^*** * 4m!* JnU~ **/** *+ **+ 

and Christian country in mmm ^ — -p ^ 

which they lived. If he .♦ . 4. * / * *f &*M* >&^t>w • 

looked at the population /{/• if fifa* XcA U+U • *M +*- /?%i /&J** yf / ** ***** __ 

of this country, that ^^ # " — fc 

which struck him more 
than almost anything else 
was this — that at this 
moment there were mil- 
lions of men at work, 
sacrificing and giving up 

their leisure to a life of ~~~ • a ' * 

sustained hardship, con- Mi. £ £*£< trfHU+i. £ 4rfCc J *&-*+'? ' ** 
fronting peril in every ▼••v • ** v* ^~ir% + ms ■— 

shape, for the sake of the * . % • • i^ 4^ /fatf* • ff tiftM*^ 

sustenance, and the com- f/A^*/. U>JuaUX*~ t^StjUtA^ / * •^ XAm *j 

fort and the happiness 71** "+' **yM*w~ J U— ■ 

of women and children. - > y 

(Cheers.) ... The avowed _ ^ + ****** A* / n*/* H<£4^ . 

object of this Bill was to *£,/* 4^/^*<^i ^/ *VftuXt< S*<H * ^ ..^ 
enable the women of this ***» ^ • c ^_3 - ^ 

country to defend them- 
selves against a Parlia- 
ment of men. (Hear.) . . . 
There might be injustice 
with regard to the laws 
which affected the pro- - _... — * w ■ # 

Kal S'no iSSy *% *"* - *> »*^ ^3^ ^^TS. * * 

in the laws which affected - 1 ■""* 

coinplaiii ? (A laugh.) _ « ■ * mmm ^ m " 

other side to^this^qu^s-/^/ Austin Sl$t. ♦ Hu^l* A H**U»£ hf^**'* jrC*V*l/~* 

tion. He would take the • _ # 47 • 

^hVre couU be no St J(t}/U - &€*** • /^UAC^ f/i*9*+£?*> ~ * a *** & 4**r 

whatever that, as regards ^C^ — ■• * ■' ^ y 

greater moderation or mmmmmmmm^** *^ ■«-■■■■ 1 ■.■■ ■— ^^, 




mercy dealt out to women 
than to men. (Hear.) 
. . . In all cases of punish- 
ment judges and juries 
were always more lenient 
in disposition to women 
than they were to men. 
He would point out to 
some of those ladies who 
were so excited on this 
matter, that in cases of 
breach of promise of mar- 
riage the advantage on 
their side seemed to te 
enormous. (Laughterand 
cheers.) ... 
most always got 
and very often, he was 
satisfied, when they ought 
not to have got it. 
(Laughter.) . . .Women 
sen-ants were not taxed, 
and men servants were 
taxed. . . . There was 
an argument which told 

** CA ^ 4 " £l **£**»* £** . AtU- CUu~ tygjj uj( # 
iiUUi^U . t^Lu^cc -£uu^ ^«4>V i****** 

Lighter and 1 ■ ■ ■ 

t a verdict, $u£ <+<£+) i% Cfa*} k^AkAJ** *'** G+%fiL*J*+l « 

l, he was ^^ ™ — 

an argument which told * 

to determine how it * » - 

_ - .„_ - fU^hA^&t'Vk+C*. 

orabsurd than to describe * *— ^ 

wer^ C not VkHhe cbss #t *<U W &44&H+ • 46*^ fc-Ai*;^ * 4jk*+t£*4jf 

of agricultural labourers ^""* * *^ 

or factory workers. Who 
were so near the hearts 
of the legislators of 

to determine how it 
would be governed— £ 
whether by one, by few, 
or by many. Honourable 
members told us that un- 
less this Bill passed we 
should have a class dis- 
contented. . . . But the. 
great mistake was in 
arguing that women were 
a class. (Hear.) Nothing 
could be more monstrous 


country as the members . y / * " § ^ ^ 4* * — 

of their own families } fo Hvu^ /+% /UfUUt+C SvU^tf *f Jl&HM* + t*+4'* 9 

(Cheers.) It was a scan- ; ■ ° * 

dalous and odious libel 
to say women were a 
class, and were therefore 
excluded from our sym- 
pathy, and Parliament 
could do no justice in 
regard to them. (Cheers.) 
. . ♦ Unfortunately for 
those who argued about 
political wrongs, the 

the greatest proportion 
of women — viz., those 
who, if there were any 
special qualification required for an elector, might be 
said to be specially qualified. It excluded married 
women, though they were generally older, more 
informed, and had greater interests at stake. Then 
n was said that the Bill was an instalment, that it 
was one step in the emancipation of women. 

If that were so, it was very odd that those most 
concerned in the Bill did not appear to be aware of it, 
because last year there was a great dispute on that 

&% 4Ul faA *u ate- **^f* 

,^*it*^ 4 » rungs, tne.__ „>*nr 


matter, . . . Last year he saw a letter, signed" A 
Married Claimant of the Franchise," in a newspaper, 
who said that a married woman could not claim to 
'vote ui a householder, but why should she not pay 
her husband a sum for her lodgings, so as to entitle 
her to claim the lodger franchise ? (Laughter.) ... If 
that Bill passed ; how would they contend against further 
claims? (Hear, heai.) . . . And what were they to 
say to these wemen wbc were to kx\e votes until they 

JAASHj^lrt+tufaj AfiuLiA / 1+s.iku. efat^ I 

•jT f £*t*£ fc/*A - 4*/i* tA/uA^Vfa^ 


married ?' The mo- 
ment the woman 
householder came 
out of church or 
chapel as a wife her 
vote would vanish, 
and her husband 
would become the 
elector. (A laugh.) 
It seemed to him 
that if they passed 
that Bill and went 
no further, what Mr. 
Mill called "the sub- 
jection of women " 
was decreed by the 
very measure in- 
tended to enfranchise 
them, and by the 
very women, and the 
very party in that 
House, who were in 
favour of that Bill. 
(Hear, hear.) Then 
again, if all men 
being householders 
had a right to be 
elected, on what prin- 
ciple were women 
not also to have a 
right to be elected ? 
(Hear, hear.) Those 
who opposed that 
Bill had a right to 
ask these questions, 
and to have an an- 
swer to them. If 
they were to travel 
that path, let them 
know how far they 
were going, and to 
what it led. ... If 
they granted that 
every woman, mar- 
ried or unmarried, 
was to have a vote, 
the hon. member for 
Lincolnshire had re- 
ferred to what would 
happen in every 
house where there 
was a double vote. 
If the husband and 
wife agreed, U would 
make no di" 
in the result 
election ; but if they 
disagreed, it would 
possibly introduce 
discord into every 
family ; and if there 
were discord be- 
tween man and wife, 
there would certainly 
be discord between 
the children. ... In that House they had one 
peculiar kind of knowledge— namely, of the penalties 
they paid for their constitutional freedom. . . . Was 
it desirable to introduce their mothers, wives, sisters, 
and daughters to the excitement, the turmoil, and, it 
might be, the very humiliation which seemed in every 
country to attend a system of Parliamentary repre- 
sentation ? (Hear, hear.) Women were more likely 
to be tainted in that way than men were. There hacJi 


it would ^ \ v ' , 

ft? n iht • 4 *"**** S*to fr&J-s dy*ju^ *6***tft 

£**$ fiU^* 4u*L h*y *(& * — ^ 

been some instances of it, ever since the Municipal 
Act gave them votes. I Ie knew a place in his neigh- 
bourhood where scenes of the most shocking kind 
had occurred. ... In another borough in Lancashire, 
at an election, women — by the hundred, he was told — ■ 
but in great numbers — were seen drunk and disgraced 
under the temptation offered them in the fierceness 
and unscrupulousness of a political contest. . . . The 
hon. member for Warwickshire had referred to priestly 




k/l*ltY4jL /U 'J**> ti/UUuUtt fiU f /*~/*4*4A..Jh'u><*fc m 

/Ufa*} • AOH^-44*, 

influence. On that 
he would only say 
that the influence of 
the priest, the par- 
son, and the minister 
would be greatly 
raised if that Bill 
were passed. (Hear, 
hear.) . . . Well, 
they were asked to 
make that great 
change and to incur 
all those risks— for 
what? To arm the 
women of this coun- 
try against the men 
of this country — to 
defend them against 
their husbands, their 
brothers, and their 
sons. To him the 
idea had in it some- 
thing strange and 
monstrous ; and he 
thought that a more 
baseless case had 
never been submitted 
to the House of 
Commons. (Hear, 
hear.) If all men 
and women voted, 
the general result 
must be the same ; 
for, by an unalterable 
natural law, strength 
was stronger than 
weakness, and in the 
end, by an absolute 
necessity, men must 
prevail. He regretted 
that there should 
be any measure in 
favour of extended 
suffrage to which he 
could not give his 
support ; but women 
would lose much of 
what was best in 
what they now pos- 
sessed, and they 
would gain no good 
of any sort, by 
mingling in the con- 
tests of the polling- 
booths. He should 
vote for that measure 
if he were voting 
solely in the inter- 
ests of men ; but he 
would vote apainst 
it with perfect hon- 
esty, believing that 
in so doing he 
should most serve the 
interests of women 
themselves. An honourable member who voted for 
the Bill last year, in a conversation with him the next 
day, told him that he had very great doubts in the 
matter, for he found wherever he went that all the best 
women seemed to be against the measure. (Laughter 
and cheers.) If the I louse believed that they could 
not legislate justly for their mothers, their wives, their 
sisters, and their daughters, the House might abdicate, 
and might pass that Bill. But he believed that Parlia- 

Digilized by Vj* 


£^) tH'tUvp,./*. U.U' \ Lft^ y/U*i/> /kft»/ 
* **** ^U to~ * j U^i-Af/' *"****" ' 




AJ- */«* 



. j*£ >- JZ' 

JUj 44* 46u*. Ay 


byte/ /ft-* 


ment could not, unless it were in ignorance, be other- 
wise than just to the women of this country, with 
whom they were so intimately allied ; and with that 
conviction, and having these doubts — which were 
stronger even than he had been able to express— doubts 
also which had only become strengthened the more he 
had considered the subject — he was obliged — differing 
from many of those whom be cared for and loved — to 
give his oppofitipnfrl ifr#|BiIl. 


A Passion in the Desert. 

From the French of Balzac. 

[The greatest of French novelists hardly needs an introduction. Innumerable books of recent years have 
rendered him and hh peculiarities familiar to the world — his ponderous figure and his face like Nero's, his early, 
struggles as a Grub-street hack, his garret in the Rue Lesdiguieres, his meals of bread and milk at twopence- 
halfpenny a day, his midnight draughts of coffee, his everlasting dress ing-gown T his eighteen hours of work to 
live of sleep, his innumerable proof-sheets blackened with corrections, his iebts, hi a duns, his quarrels with his 
publishers, bis gradual rise to affluence and glory, his romantic passion for the Russian Co unless, his marriage 
with her after sixteen years of waiting, ami Iih death <M heart disease just as the land of promise lny before him. 
Balzac, who took all human nature for his theme, and who pourt rayed above two thousand men and women, 
made but one study of an animal — a circumstance which gives " A Passion in the Desert " an interest all ite 

animals are 

T is a terrible sight ! " she ex- 
claimed as we left the mena- 
gerie of Monsieur Martin. 

She had just been witness- 
ing this daring showman 
u performing " in the cage of 
lis hyena, 

44 By what means," she went on, "can he 
have so tamed these animals as to be secure 
of their affection ? " 

*' What seems to you a problem/' I 
responded, interrupting her, £k is in reality 
a fact of nature." 

44 Oh ! M she exclaimed, with an incredu- 
lous smile. 

14 You think, then, that 
devoid of passions ?" I asked 
her. " You must know that 
we can teach them all the 
qualities of civilised exist- 

She looked at me with 
astonished air. 

41 But/* I went 
on, 4i when I first 
saw Monsieur Mar- 
tin, I confess that, 
like y our self , I 
uttered an exclam- 
ation of surprise. 
I happened to be 
standing by the 
side of an old sol- 
dier, whose right 
leg had been am- 
putated, and who 
had come in with 
me. I was struck 
by his appearance. 

His was one of those intrepid heads, stamped 
with the seal of war, upon whose brows are 
written the battles of Napoleon. About this 
old soldier was a certain air of frankness and 
of gaiety which always gains my favour. 





He was doubtless one of those old troopers 
whom nothing can surprise ; who find food 
for laughter in the dying spasms of a com- 
rade, who gaily bury and despoil him, who 
challenge bullets with indifference — though 
their arguments are short enough — and who 
would hob-nob with the devil. After 
keenly looking at the showman as he was 
coming from the cage, my neighbour pursed 
his lips with that significant expression of 
contempt which superior men assume to 
show their difference from the dupes. At 
my exclamation of surprise at Monsieur 
Martin's courage he smiled, and nodding 
with a knowing air, remarked, 4 I under- 
stand all that,' 

llt How?' I 
answered. 4 If you 
can explain this 
mystery to me you 
will oblige me 

44 In a few mo- 
ment* we had 
struck up an ac- 
quaintance, and 
went to dine at 
the first restaurant 
at hand. At des- 
sert a bottle of 
champagne com- 
pletely cleared the 
memory of this 
strange old soldier. 
He told his story, 
and 1 saw he was 
right when he ex* 
claimed, 4 1 under- 
stand all that/ 
When we got home, she teased me so, 
and yet so prettily, that I consented to 
write out for her the soldier's reminis- 

The next day she received this episode, 

Original from 


lli TULD Hlti bTOHVp 



from an epic that might be called "The 
French in Egypt. 1 ' 

During the expedition undertaken in 
Upper Egypt by General Dcsaix, a Pro- 
vencal soldieT, who had fallen into the 
hands of the Maugrabins, was taken by these 
Arabs into the desert beyond the cataracts 
of the Nile, In order to put between them 
and the French army a distance to assure 
their safety, the Maugrabins made a forced 
march, and did not halt till night. They 
then camped by the side of a well, sur- 
rounded by a clump of palm- 
trees, where they had before 
buried some provisions. 
Never dreaming that their 
prisoner would think of 
flight, they merely bound 
his hands, and all of 
them, after eating a 
few dates, and giv- 
ing barley to their 
horses, went to sleep. 
When the bold Pro- 
vencal saw his ene- 
mies incapable of 
watching him, he 
picked up a scimi- 
tar with his teeth, 
and then with the 
blade fixed be- 
tween his knees, 
cut the cords that 
lashed his wrists, 
and found himself at liber- 
ty* He at once seized a 
carbine and a dagger ; 
provided himself with 
some dry dates and a small bag of barley, 
powder and balls ; girded on the scimitar, 
sprang on a horse, and pressed forward in 
the direction where he fancied the French 
army must be found- Impatient to regain 
the bivouac, he so urged the weary horse, 
that the poor beast fell dead, its sides torn 
with the spurs, leaving the Frenchman 
alone in the midst of the desert, 

After wandering for some time amidst 
the sand with the desperate courage of an 
escaping convict, the soldier was forced to 
stop- Night was closing in. Despite the 
beauty of the Eastern night he had not 
strength sufficient to go on. Fortunately 
he had reached a height on the top of which 
were palm trees, whose leaves, for some time 
visible far off, had awakened in his heart 
a hope of safety. He was so weary that he lay 
down on a granite stone, oddly shaped like 

a camp bed, and went to sleep, without 
taking the precaution to protect himself in 
his slumber. He had sacrificed his life, and 
his last thought was a regret for having left 
the Maugrabins, whose wandering life began 
to please him, now that he was far from 
them and from all hope of succour. 

He was awakened by the sun, whose 
pitiless rays falling vertically upon the 


by Google 

granite made it intolerably hot. For the 
Provencal had been so careless as to cast 
himself upon the ground in the direction 
opposite to that on which the green majestic 
palm -tops threw their shadow, He looked 
at these solitary trees and shuddered ! They 
reminded him of the graceful shafts 
surmounted by long foils that distinguish 
the Saracenic columns of the Cathedral of 
Aries. He counted the few palms ; and then 
looked about him, A terrible despair 
seized upon his soul. He saw a boundless 
ocean. The melancholy sands spread round 
him, glittering like a blade of steel in a 
bright light, as far as eye could see. He 
knew not whether he was gazing on an 
Original from 




ocean, or a chain of lakes as lustrous as a 
mirror. A fiery mist shimmered, in little 
ripples, above the tremulous landscape. The 
sky possessed an Oriental blazo, the 
brilliancy which brings despair, seeing 
that it leaves the imagination nothing to 
desire. Heaven and earth alike were all 
aflame. The silence was terrible in its wild 
and awful majesty. Infinity, immensity, op- 
pressed the soul on all sides ; not a cloud 
was in the sky, not a breath was in the 
air, not a movement on the bosom of the 
sand, which undulated into tiny waves. 



the horizon was marked off, as 

on a summer day at sea, by a line of light 
an bright and narrow as a sabre's edge. 

The Provencal clasped his arms about a 
palm tree as if it had been the body of 
a friend ; then, sheltered by the straight 
and meagre shadow, he sat down weeping on 
the granite, and looking with deep dread 
upon the lonely scene spread out before 
his eyes. He cried aloud as if to tempt the 
the solitude. His voice, lost in the hollows 
of the height, gave forth far-off a feeble 
sound that woke no echo ; the echo was 
within his heart ! 

The Provencal was twenty-two 
old. He loaded his carbine. 

" Time enough for 
that ! jf he muttered to 
himself, placing the 
weapon of deliverance on 
the ground. 

Looking by turns 
at the melancholy 





waste of sand and at the blue expanse of 
sky, the soldier dreamed of France. With 
delight he fancied that he smelt the Paris 
gutters, and recalled the towns through 
which he had passed, the faces of his 
comrades, and the slightest incidents of 
his life. Then, his Southern imagination 
made him fancy in the play of heat quiver- 
ing above the plain, the pebbles of his own 
dear Provence. But fearing all the dangers 
of this cruel mirage, he went down in the 
direction opposite to that which he had 
taken when he had climbed the hill thenight 
before. Great was his joy on discovering 
a kind of grotto, naturally cut out of the 
enormous fragments of granite that formed 
the bottom of the hill. The remnants of 
a mat showed that this retreat had once 
been inhabited. Then, a few steps further, 
he saw palm-trees with a load of dates. 
Again the instinct which attaches man to 
life awoke within his heart. He now hoped 
to live until the passing of some Maugrabin ; 
or perhaps he would soon hear the boom of 
cannon, for at that time Buonaparte was 
overrunning Egypt, Revived by this re- 
flection, the Frenchman cut down a few 
bunches of ripe fruit, beneath w T hose weight 
the date trees seemed to bend, and felt sure, 
on tasting this unhoped-for 
manna t that the inhabitant 
of this grotto had cultivated 
the palm-trees. The fresh 
and luscious substance of the 
date bore witness to his pre- 
decessor's care. 

The Provencal passed sud- 
denly from dark despair to 
well-nigh insane delight. 
He climbed the hill again ; 
and spent the remainder of 
the day in cutting down a 
barren palm-tree, which the 
night before had 
served him for 

A vague remem- 
brance made him 
think of the wild 
desert beasts j and, 
foreseeing that 
they might come 
to seek the spring 
which bubbled 

through the sand 
among the rocks, 
he resolved to 
secure himself 

against their visits 
Original from 



by placing a barrier at the door of his her- 
mitage, In spite of his exertions, in spite 
of the strength with which the fear of being 
eaten during sleep endued him, it was 
impossible for him to cut the palm to 
pieces in one day ; but he contrived to 
bring it down. When, towards evening, 
the monarch of the desert fell, the thunder 
of its crash resounded far, as if 
the mighty Solitude had given 
forth a moan. The soldier 
shuddered as if he had heard a 
voice that prophesied misfortune. 
But like an heir who does not 
long bewail the death of a rela- 
tion, he stripped the 
tree of the broad, long, 
green leaves, and used 
them to repair the mat 
on which he was about 
to lie. At length, 
wearied by the heat 
and by his labours, 
he fell asleep beneath 
the red roof of his 
murky grotto. 

In the middle of the 
night he was disturbed 
by a strange noise. He 
sat up ; in the profound 
silence he could hear a 
c reatur e breath i n g— a 
savage respiration 
which resembled no- 
thing human. Terror, 
intensified by darkness, 
silence, and the fancies 
of one suddenly awak- 
ened, froze his blood, 
He felt the sharp con- 
traction of his scalp, 
when, as the pupils of 
his eyes dilated* he saw 
in the shadow two faint 
and yellow lights. At 
first lie thought these 
lights were some reflection of his eyeballs, 
but soon, the clear brightness of the night 
helping him to distinguish objects in the 
grotto, he saw lying at two paces from him 
an enormous beast ! 

Was it a lion? — a tiger? — a crocodile ? 
The Provencal wa^ nut sufficiently 
educated to know the species of his 
enemy, but his terror was all the 
greater ; since his ignorance assisted his 
imagination. He bore the cruel torture of 
listening, of marking the caprices of this 
awful breathing, without losing a sound of 

it, or venturing to make the slightest move- 
ment- A smell as pungent as a fox's, but 
more penetrating, filled the grotto ; and 
when it entered his nostrils his terror 
passed all bounds ; he could no longer 
doubt the presence of the terrible com- 
panion whose royal den was serving him 
for bivouac. Presently the "moon, now 
sinkingj lighted up the den, 
and in the moon-rays 
gradually shone out a pan- 
ther^ spotted skin- 

The lion of 
Egypt was sleep- 
ing, curled up 
like a great dog 
who is the peace- 
able possessor of 
a sumptuous 


kennel at a mansion door ; its eyes, which 
had been opened for one moment were now 
closed again. Its face was turned towards 
the Frenchman. 

A thousand troubled thoughts passed 
through the mind of the panther's prisoner. 
At first he thought of shooting it j but 
there was not enough room between them 
to adjust his gun ; the barrel would have 
reached beyond the animal. And what if 
he awoke it ! This supposition made him 
motionlQ&clhl^keiurig in the silence to the 
b^WCRSW0I^CHl»3*.l^^ the loud 



pulsations, fearing to disturb the sleep that 
gave him time to seek some means of safety* 
Twice he placed his hand upon his scimitar, 
with the intention of cutting off the head 
of his enemy ; but the difficulty of cutting 
through the short, strong fur compelled 
him to abandon the idea. To fail was cer- 
tain death. He preferred the odds of con- 
flict, and determined to await the day- 
break. And daylight was not long in 
coming. The Frenchman was able to 
examine the panther. Its muzzle was 
stained with blood. 

11 It has eaten plenty/* he reflected, with- 
out conjecturing that the feast might have 
been composed of human flesh j "it will 
not be hungry when it wakes." 

It was a female. The fur upon her breast 
and thighs shone with whiteness. A num- 
ber of little spots like velvet looked like 
charming bracelets around her paws. The 
muscular tail was also white, but tipped with 
black rings. The upper part of her coat, 
yellow as old gold s but very soft and 
smooth, bore those characteristic marks, 
shaded into the form of roses, which serve 
to distinguish the panther from the other 
species of the genus Felis. This fearful 
visitor was snoring tranquilly in an attitude 
as graceful as that of a kitten lying on the 
cushions of an ottoman. Her sinewy, blood- 
stained paws j with powerful claws, were 
spread beyond her head, which rested on 
them, and from which stood out the thin, 
straight whiskers with a gleam 
like silver wires. 

If she had been imprison ed 

in a cage, the Provencal would assuredly 
have admirexi the creature's eraee, and the 
vivid contrasts of colour that gave her 
garment an imperial lustre ; but at this 
moment he felt his sight grow dim at her 
sinister aspect. The presence of the panther, 
even sleeping, made him experience the 
effect which the magnetic eyes of the serpent 
are said to exercise upon the nightingale, 

In the presence of this danger the 
courage of the soldier faltered, although 
without doubt it would have risen at the 
can non r s mouth. A desperate thought, how- 
ever, filled his mind, and dried up at its 
source the chilly moisture which %vas roll- 
ing down his forehead, Acting as men do 
who, driven to extremities, at last defy 
their fate, and nerve themselves to meet 
theii doom, lie saw a tragedy in this adven- 
ture, and resolved to play his part in it 
with honour to the last. 

"Two days ago," he argued with him- 
self, "the Arabs might have killed 
nie. ?l 

Considering himself as good as dead, he 
waited bravely, yet with restless curiosity, 
for the awaking of his enemy. 

When the sun shone out, the panther 
opened her eyes suddenly; then she spread 
out her paws forcibly, as if to stretch them 
and get rid of cramp. Then she yawned, 
showing an alarming set of teeth and an 
indented, rasp-like tongue, " She is like 
a dainty lady ! " thought the Frenchman, 


Vjougrt UNIV 

„,*.,. ginal tram 



as he saw her rolling over with a gentle 
and coquettish movement. She licked 
off the blood that stained her paws and 
mouth, and rubbed her head with 
movements full of charm. " That's it ! Just 
beautify yourself a little ! " the Frenchman 
said, his gaiety returning with his courage. 
"Then we must say good-morning." And 
he took up the short dagger of which he 
had relieved the Maugrabins. 

At this moment the panther turned her 
head towards the Frenchman, and looked 
at him fixedly, without advancing. The 
rigidity of those metallic eyes, and their 
insupportable brightness, made the Pro- 
vencal shudder. The beast began to 
move towards him. He looked at her 
caressingly, and fixing her eyes as if to 
magnetise her, he let her come close up to 
him ; then, with a soft and gentle gesture, 
he passed his hand along her body, from 
head to tail, scratching with his nails the 
flexible vertebrae that divide a panther's 
yellow back. The beast put up her tail 
with pleasure ; her eyes grew softer ; and when 
for the third time the Frenchman accom- 
plished this self-interested piece of flattery, 
she broke into a purring like a cat. But 
this purr proceeded from a throat so deep 
and powerful that it re-echoed through the 
grotto like the peals of a cathedral organ. 
The Provencal, realising the success of his 
caresses, redoubled them, until the imperi- 
ous beauty was completely soothed and 

When he felt sure that he had perfectly 
subdued the ferocity of his capricious com- 
panion, whose hunger had been satisfied so 
cruelly the night before, he got up to leave 
the grotto. The panther let him go ; but 
when he had climbed the hill, she came 
bounding after him with the lightness of 
a sparrow hopping from branch to branch, 
and rubbed herself against the soldier's leg, 
arching her back after the fashion of a cat. 
Then looking at her guest with eyes whose 
brightness had grown less inflexible, she 
uttered that savage cry which naturalists 
have compared to the sound of a saw. 

" What an exacting beauty ! " cried the 
Frenchman, smiling. He set himself to play 
with her ears, to caress her body, and to 
scratch her head hard with his nails. Then, 
growing bolder with success, he tickled her 
skull with the point of his dagger, watching 
for the spot to strike her. But the hard- 
ness of the bones made him afraid of 

The sultana of the desert approved the 

action of her slave by raising her head, 
stretching her neck, and showing her delight 
by the quietness of her attitude. The 
Frenchman suddenly reflected that in order 
to assassinate this fierce princess with one 
blow he need only stab her in the neck. He 
had just raised his knife for the attempt, 
when the panther, with a graceful 
action, threw herself upon the ground 
before his feet, casting him from time to 
time a look in which, in spite of its 
ferocity of nature, there was a gleam of 

The poor Provencal, with his back against 
a palm tree, ate his dates, while he cast 
inquiring glances, now towards the desert 
for deliverers, now upon his terrible com- 
panion, to keep an eye upon her dubious 
clemency. Every time he threw away a 
date-stone, the panther fixed her eyes upon 
the spot with inconceivable mistrust. She 
scrutinised the Frenchman with a business- 
like attention ; but the examination seemed 
favourable, for when he finished his poor 
meal, she licked his boots, and with her 
rough, strong tongue removed the dust 
incrusted in their creases. 

" But when she becomes hungry ? " 
thought the Provencal. 

Despite the shudder this idea caused him, 
the soldier began examining with curiosity 
the proportions of the panther, certainly 
one of the most beautiful specimens of her 
kind. She was three feet high and four 
feet long, without the tail. This powerful 
weapon, as round as a club, was nearly 
three feet long. The head — large as that 
of a lioness — was distinguished by an ex- 
pression of rare delicacy ; true, the cold 
cruelty of the tiger dominated, but there 
was also a resemblance to the features of a 
wily woman. In a word, the countenance 
of the solitary queen wore at this moment 
an expression of fierce gaiety, Hke that of 
Nero flushed with wine ; she had quenched 
her thirst in blood, and now desired to 

The soldier tried to come and go, and the 
panther let him, content to follow him with 
her eyes, but less after the manner of a 
faithful dog than of a great Angora cat, 
suspicious even of the movements of its 
master. When he turned round he saw 
beside the fountain the carcase of his horse ; 
the panther had dragged the body all that 
distance. About two-thirds had been de- 
voured. This sight reassured the French- 
man. He was thus easily able to explain 

the 8teSW6^te3 ,,d,hcr<;spcct 



which she had shown for him while he was 

This first piece of luck emboldened him 
about the future- He conceived the mad 
idea of setting up a pleasant household life, 
together with the panther, neglecting no 
means of pacifying her and of conciliating 
her good graces. He returned to her, and 
saw, to his delight , that she moved her tail 
with an almost imperceptible motion. Then 
he sat down beside her without fear, and 
began to play with her ; he grasped her 
paws, her muzzle, pulled her ears, threw 
her over on her back, and vigorously 
scratched her warm and silky sides. She 
let him have his way, and when the soldier 
tried to smooth the fur upon her paws -Ik: 
carefully drew in her claws, which had the 
curve of a Damascus blade. The 
Frenchman, who kept one hand 
upon his dagger, was still thinking 
of plunging it into the body of the 
too -confiding panther; but he 
feared lest she should strangle him 
in her last convulsions. And be- 
sides, within his heart there was a 
movement of remorse that warned 
him to respect an inoffensive crea- 
ture* It seemed to him that he 
had found a friend in this vast 
desert. Involuntarily he called to 
mind a woman whom he once had 
loved, whom he sarcastically had 
nicknamed u Mignonne," from her 
jealousy, which was so fierce that 
during the whole time of their 
acquaintance he went in fear that 
she would stab him. This memory 
of his youth suggested the idea of 
calling the young panther by this name, 
whose lithe agility and grace he now 
admired with less terror. 

Towards evening he had become so far 
accustomed to his perilous position, that 
he almost liked the hazard of it. At last 
his companion had got into the habit of 
looking at him when he called in a falsetto 
voice " Mignonne. 1 ' 

At sun-down Mignonne uttered several 
times a deep and melancholy cry. 

11 She has been properly brought up,' T 
thought the light-hearted soldier ; " she 
says her prayers ! 1? But it was, no doubt, 
her peaceful attitude which brought the 
jest into his mind. 

11 All right, my little pet ; I will let you get 
to sleep first/' he said, relying on his legs 
lo get away as soon as she was sleeping, 
and to seek some other shelter for the night- 


The soldier waited wilh patience for 
the hour of flight, and when it came, 
set out full speed in the direction of the 
Nile. But he had only gone a quarter of a 
league across the sand when lie heard the 
panther bounding after him, uttering at 
intervals that saw-like cry, more terrible 
even than the 
thudding of her 

"Well !" he 
said to himself, 
t+ she must have 
taken a fancy to 
me. Perhaps she 
has never yet met 


anyone. It is flattering to be her first love ! " 
At this moment the Frenchman fell 
into a shifting quicksand, so dangerous to 
the traveller in the desert* escape from 
which is hopeless, He felt that he was 
sinking ; he gave a cry of terror. The 
panther seized him by the collar with her 
teeth, and springing backwards with 
stupendous vigour drew him from the gulf 
as if by magic. 

11 Ah ! Mignonne ! " cried the soldier, 
enthusiastically caressing her, 4i we are friends 
now for life and death. But no tricks, eh ? " 
and he retraced his steps* 

Henceforth the desert was as though it 
had been peopled. It contained a being 
with whom he could converse, and 
whose ferocity had been softened for him, 
without his being able to explain so strange 
a friendshipOriginalfrom 




4i Ah ! Beauty 
young woman, are 

HE CAVE A CfiV 0\r ThEKOi;. 

However great was his desire to keep 
awake and on his guard, he fell asleep- On 
awakening, Mignonne was no longer to 
be seen. He climbed the hill, and then 
perceived her afar off, coming along by 
leaps and bounds, according to the nature 
of these creatures, the extreme flexibility 
of whose vertebra; prevents their running. 

Mignonne came up t her jaws besmeared 
with blood, She received the caresses of 
her companion with deep purrs of satis- 
faction, Her eyes, now full of softness, 
were turned, with even greater tenderness 
than the night before*, to the Provencal, 
who spoke to her as to a pet, 

! you are a respectable 
you not ? You like 
petting, don't you ? Are you not ashamed 
of yourself ? You have been eating a Mau- 
grabin ! Well ! they're animals, as you are. 
But don't you go and gobble up a French- 
man. If you do, I shall not love you ! TT 

She played as a young pup plays with its 
master, letting him roll her over, beat and 
pet her ; and sometimes she would coax 
him to caress her with a movement of 

A few days passed thus. This companion- 
ship revealed to the Provencal the sublime 
beauties of the desert. From the moment 
when he found within it hours of fear and 
ytl of calm, a sufficiency of food t and a 
living creature who absorbed his thoughts, 
his soul was stirred bv new emotions It 
was a life of contrasts Solitude revealed to 
him her secrets, and involved hiui in her 
charm* He discovered in the rising and the 
setting of the sun a splendour hidden from 
the world of men. His frame quivered 


when he heard above ins head the soft 
whirr of a bird's wings — rare wayfarer ; or 
when he ^aw the clouds — those changeful, 
many-coloured voyagers— mingle in the 
depth of heaven. In the dead of night he 
studied the effects of the moon upon the 
sea of sand, which the simoon drove in 
ever-changing undulations. He lived with 
the Oriental day ; he marvelled at its pomp 
and glory ; and often, after having watched 
the grandeur of a tempest in the plain, in 
which the sands were whirled in dry red 
mists of deadly vapour, he beheld with 
ecstasy the coming on of night, for then 
there fell upon him the benignant coolness 
of the stars. He heard imaginary music 
in the sky^ Solitude taught him all the 
bliss of reverie. He spent whole hours in 
calling trifles to remembrance, in com- 
paring his past life with his strange present, 
To his panther he grew passionately 
attached, for he required an object of 
affection. Whether by a strong effort of 
his will he had really changed the character 
of his companion, or whether, thanks to 
the constant warfare of the deserts, shu 
found sufficient food, she showed no dispo- 
sition to attack him, and at last, in her perfect 
tameness, he no longer felt the slightest fear. 
He spent a great part of his lime in sleep- 
ing, but ever, like a spider in its web, 
with mind alert r that he might not let 
deliverance escape him, should any chance 
to pass within the sphere described bv the 
horizon. Ik had sacriliced his shirt to make 
a flag, which he had hoisted to the summit 
of a palm-tree stripped of leaves. Taught 
by necessity, he had found the means to 
keep it sf@^p^irt^[ ftftfchiiig it with sticks, 




lest the wind should fail to wave it at the 
moment when the hoped-for traveller might 
be travelling the waste of sand. 

It was during the long hours when hope 
abandoned him that he amused himself 
with his companion. He had learnt to 
understand the different inflexions of her 
voice, and the expression of her glances ; 
he had studied the varying changes of the 
spots that starred her robe of gold. Mig- 
nonne no longer growled , even when he 
seized her by the tuft with which her terrible 
tail ended, to count the black and white 
rings which adorned it, and which glittered 
in the sun like precious gems. It delighted 
him to watch the delicate soft lines of her 
snowy breast and graceful head* But above 
all when she was gambolling in her play he 
watched her with delight, for the agility, 
the youthfulness of all her movements 
filled him with an ever-fresh surprise. He 
admired her suppleness in leaping, climbing, 
gliding, pressing close against him, swaying, 
rolling over, crouching for a bound. But 
however swift her spring, however slippery 
the block of granite, she would stop short, 
without motion, at the sound of the word 
"Mignonne ! w 

One day, in the most darling sunshine, 
an enormous bird was hovering in the air. 
The Provencal left his panther to examine 

this new visitor ; but after waiting for a 
moment the deserted sultana uttered a 
hoarse growL 

u Blessed if I don't believe that she is 
jealous! M he exclaimed, perceiving that her 
eyes were once more hard and rigid. M A 
woman's soul has passed into her body, 
that is certain ! " 

The eagle disappeared in air> while he 
admired afresh the rounded back and 
graceful outlines of the panther. She was 
as pretty as a woman. The blonde fur 
blended in its delicate gradations into the 
dull white colour of the thighs. The 
brilliant sunshine made this vivid gold, 
with spots of brown T take on a lustre in- 
describable. The Provencal and the panther 
looked at one another understanding!}- ; the 
beauty of the desert quivered when she felt 
the nails of her admirer on her skull. Her 
eyes gave forth a flash like lightning, and 
then she closed them hard. 

H She has a soul, 1 ' he cried, as he beheld 
the desert queen in her repose, golden as 
the sands, white as their blinding lustre, 
and, like them, fiery and alone, 

" Well ? " she said to me, " I have read 
your pleading on behalf of animals. But 
what was the end of these two persons so 
well made to understand each other ? M 


Y tWiGtK IJfTO 1 

Original from 



" Ah ! They ended as all great passions 
end — through a misunderstanding. Each 
thinks the other guilty of a falsity, each 
is too proud for explanation, and obstinacy 
brings about a rupture.' ' 

"And sometimes in the happiest mo- 
ments," she said, " a look, an exclamation, 
is enough ! Well, what was the end of 
the story ? " 

"That is difficult to tell, but you will 
understand what the old fellow had confided 
to me, when, finishing his bottle of cham- 
pagne, he exclaimed, * I don't know how I 
hurt her, but she turned on me like mad, 
and with her sharp teeth seized my thigh. 
The action was not savage ; but fancying 
that she meant to kill me I plunged my 
dagger into her neck. She rolled over with 
a cry that froze my blood ; she looked at 
me in her last struggles without anger. I 
would have given everything on earth, even 
my cross — which then I had not won — to 

bring her back to life. It was as if I had 
slain a human being. And the soldiers 
who had seen my flag, and who were hasten- 
ing to my succour, found me bathed in tears. 

41 4 Well, sir/ he went on, after a moment's 
silence, 4 since then I have been through 
the wars in Germany, Spain, Russia, 
France ; I have dragged my carcase round 
the world ; but there is nothing like the 
desert in my eyes ! Ah ! it is beautiful — 

" * What did you feel there ? ' I inquired 
of him. 

"*OH ! that I cannot tell you. Besides, 
I do not always regret my panther, and my 
clump of palm-trees. I must be sad at 
heart for that. But mark my words. In 
the desert, there is everything and there is 

" ' Explain yourself.' 

" * Well ! ' he continued, with a gesture of 
impatience, * it is God without man.' " 

by Google 



(S> <^ATo 


A Story for Children, from thf Hungarian of Moritz Jokal 

[MokITZ J OK Al, the most popular of Hungarian writers living, was bom at Kormorn, in 1S35. His 
father, who was a lawyer, intended Moritz for the same profession, arid at twelve years old the boy began to 
drive a quilL But his ambition was to be a painter and an author. Often, after office hours, he would write 
or paint in his own room till day was breaking. His pictures turned out failures — though he slill makes 
dashing sketches, full of life and colour— but his writings met with a peculiar stroke of luck. One day his 
master lighted on a bundle of his papers, looked into them, and was amazed to find his clerk a man of genius. 
He took the papers to a printer, and had them printed at his own expense. The book caught the public fancy, 
and Moritz, who was now an orphan, took the counsel of his friendly master, and turned from his engrossing 
to write tales and plays. At the age of twenty-three he married Rosa Laborfabri, the greatest of Hungarian 
actresses — a step for which his family discarded him, but to which, a year afterwards, he owed his life. The 
Revolution broke upon the country ; Moritz drew his sword to strike a blow for liberty, was present at the 
surrender of Villages, was taken prisoner, and was sentenced to be shot. On the eve of the execution his wife 
arrived from Pesth ; she had sold her jewels to raise money, with which she bribed I he guards, and the pair 
escaped into the woods of Buk, where for some time, in danger of thetr lives, they lurked hi caves and slept on 
heaps of leaves* Thence they stole to Pesth, where they have ever since resided — in summer, in a pretty 
house, hall buried in its vines and looking from a rising ground across the roofs and steeples of the grand old 
city ; in winter, in a house within the town, where Jokal writes among his books and pictures in a room ablaze 
with flowers. His works amount to some two hundred volumes ; indeed, the modem literature of Hungary is 
almost wholly hi* creation ; and in everything he writes his original and striking gifts are visible, whether 
it be a novel in five volumes, or the slightest of amusing trifles, like " Barak Hageb and his Wives."] 

1ARAK HAGEB had no less 
than three hundred and sixty - 
five wives ; one for everyday 
in the year. How he man- 
aged in leap year with one 
wife short, remains for ever a 

But you are not, therefore, to suppose that 
Barak was a Sultan ; he was only High 
Chamberlain — as the title Hageb shows— 
at the eourt of Sultan Mahmoud. 

Barak had come into the land in the first 
instance as ambassador from the great 
empire of Mongolia, and the Regent, the 
widow of the iate Sultan, who was still a 
young woman, had entrusted everything to 
him. Mahmoud was as yet no more than a 

Barak governed as he thought fit- It was 
a very thrifty rule. He introduced that 

reform in the army by which the soldier's 
pay was reduced from four half- pennies to 
three ; for he declared that three was a 
sacred number, if only because there had 
been three Prophets, 

One day the Grand Vizier Darfoor Ali 
came to visit the worthy Barak Hageb, and 
while they sipped their coffee the guest 
spoke : ll Verily,' T said he, l( it is a piece of 
folly quite unworthy of you to keep so 
many wives. If, indeed , it were the custom 
with us, as among the Franks, to give wives 
for nothing, or even on occasion to pay a 
dowry to the husband, I should have 
nothing to say to it f for you would be richer 
than King Crtrsus. But among u* the 
world is topsy-turvy ; we buy our wives, 
and generally pay money down. You have 
squandered vast synis in this way. If it 
had been your owri r 'Wiftncy it would have 




mattered nothing. 
But it is the 
nation's money 
that you have 
spent to buy more 
and more wives — 
that is where the 
mischief lies, A 
hundred warriors 
could be placed in 
the field for the 
price of one of 
your wives." 

u Very true ; but 
would a hundred 
warriors afford me 
greater pleasure 
than one beautiful 
woman ? ir replied 
Barak, with pro- 
found wisdom. 
And Ali was 
obliged in his soul 
to admit that he 
was right. 

However , he ob- 
jected to the mul- 
tiplicity of wives, 
saying : il Everyone 
may gather as 
many flowers in 
the garden of the 
world as he pos- 
sibly can. This 
the Prophet allows, 

and you might have collected every 
variety : fair and dark, pale and black, blue- 
eyed and green-eyed women, yellow Chinese 
and tawny Malays, and, for aught I care, 
women who dye their hair red and their 
teeth black; still, I think that one specimen 
of each would have been enough. By Allah ! 
Why, you could not even repeat the names 
of all your wives, or the use they are to 
you/ 1 

41 You are quite mistaken,' 1 replied Barak 
Hageb, " I will enumerate them all in order, 
First, there is Ildibah, who can prophesy, 
and is indispensable to the fate of the 
country ; then there is Hafitem, a ghost- 
seer, who calls up the spirits of the dead ; 
Nourmahal, who understands the language 
of birds better than I understand yours ; 
Alpaida, who tells tales which would send 
even a Sultan to sleep ; and Mahaderi 
and Assinta, who dance a pas dc deux to 
perfection. As to Mangora, she makes 
cakes fit for a King, and Sandabad prepares 
such a miraculous sherbet that when you 



have drunk it, it makes you sad to wipe your 
moustache. Via Hia, my Chinese wife, has 
a way of arranging cock-fights which are 
more amusing than a battle ; and Haka, the 
Hindoo, can subjugate wild beasts, and 
tame even iions to harness to her chariot. 
Roxana is an astrologer, and can tell you 
the day of your death ; Aysha understands 
the culture of flowers ; Kaika to be sure is 
hideous, but to this peculiarity she adds the 
power of rubbing the gout out of my limb?, 
Jarko, my Tartar wife, is an accomplished 
horsewoman, and teaches the others to 
ride. Abuzayda, who is highly educated, 
writes the letters I dictate to her ; Josa 
reads to me out of the Koran ; Rachel sings 
psalms, in which she is assisted by Kadiga- 
val and Samuza, for a man of any position 
at all must have a trio. Of Tukinna I need 
only say that she is a rope-dancer, while 
Zibella can cast a knife with such precision 
as to divide a human hair at twelve paces. 
Barossa is skilled in medicine, Aliben em- 
broiders in gold, Alaciel binds my turban 
Original from 




admirably, and Khatum of Bagdad inter- 
prets my most interesting dreams. Ma vol a 
plays the harp, Zebra the tom-tom, and Hia 
the' tambourine, a quite celestial harmony. 
Ah j and then Sichem " 

The Grand Vizier had begun by counting 
the list of ladies on his fingers, and then on 
his toes ; but when the number already 
exceeded thirty, he cried ^vHold, enough ! fl 
for he began to fear that he should remain 
all night, and still that his friend would not 
have done. 

4i Wcllj well/' ho broke in, " Ihave heard 
enough* No doubt you require all the 
three hundred and sixty-five. Each of them 
has her admirable side, but beware lest 
some day the bad side should be turned 

And the Grand Vizier was right t as we 
shall see in the sequel. 

Sultan Sidi Ahmed, of Herman, the ruler 
nf an adjacent State, had received informa- 
tion that the people in Mahmoud's territory 
were ill-content, and he determined to set 
the oppressed free. To cure the diseases of 
his neighbour was in all ages a favourite 
undertaking with every Oriental Sovereign. 

Sidi Ahmed was master of a vast army. 


by Google 

Some Persian writers affirm that he had 
ten thousand soldiers, while other historians 
estimate them as at least a hundred thou- 
sand. Something between the two is pro- 
bably nearer the truth. He had three 
hundred horsemen ; that much k eertaim 

Before declaring war, the Sultan raised his 
soldiers* pay from four halfpennies to five. 
This announcement fired the whole army 
with enthusiasm. At the head of the 
troops was the Sultan himself. He and his 
horse were a blaze of jewels, a sight which 
filled his bare- foot troops with honest pride. 
The most costly delicacies were carried in 
his train, and the thought that he alone 
would least on these dainties brought great 
consolation to the hungry warriors, 

Mahmoud, too, fitted out a great army ; 
of how many men history does not tell, but 
at any rate they were twice as many as 
the enemy could put Into the field. The 
Grand Vizier Darfoor AH led them in 

On the eve of the first battle one of 
Barak's wives, the above-named lldibah, 
foretold that the neighbouring realm would 
be brought to nought ; and the lady Koxana, 
who was also a soothsayer, solemnly de- 
clared that on the morrow Sidi Ahmed 
must die. Barak Hageb had these pro- 
phecies proclaimed in the capital, and the 
enthusiasm was soon general, Barak him- 
self was firmly convinced that both would 
be fulfilled ; he and all his wifely following 
took up a position next day on a hill 
overlooking the field of battle, 
whence they could enjoy the de- 
lightful prospect of the enemy's 

The struggle began 
at daybreak, but it did 
not last long. The his- 
torians before quoted, or 
rather alluded to, differ 
widely in their accounts, 
Peraan chroniclers as- 
sert that Mahmoud's 
army lost forty - five 
thousand men, and that 
the enemy only left 
three for dead ; another 
writer, on the contrary, 
says that Mahmoud's 
troops lost not even a 
slipper r much less the 
man belonging thereto, 
while the dead on the 
other side may be reck- 
oned in round numbers 
Original from 



at thirty-three thousand. In this case, again, 
perhaps the truth lies between the two. 
But by fairly trustworthy accounts the 
worthy Mahmoud's army— the men whose 
pay had been so liberally reduced — ai the 
first onslaught took to their heels, seizing 
the opportunity of showing that no one 
could catch them up. What wonder ? 
Who would care to sell his life for three 
halfpence ? Sidi Ahmed's troops there- 
upon announced that they were masters of 
the field t and their first business was to 
plunder the villages in the neighbourhood, 

his choice collection of wives ; and when he 
was told that Barak and his women had 
taken to flight he thought he could not dr> 
better than start at once in pursuit. Till 
late at night two clouds of dust might be 
discerned scudding along one behind the 
other : the foremost raised by Barak and 
his wives, the second by Sidi Ahmed's 

(i By the apron of the Prophet's wife ! " 
Barak growled, i( Roxana's prognostications 
have not proved true. It is 1 who shall be 
a dead man this day, and not Sidi Ahmed." 

; n 



at that time a favourite way of setting a 
people free. 

u By the beard of the Prophet I Tt cried 
Barak Hageb, as he saw his countrymen 
take to flight, "I almost fancy that Ildibah's 
prophecy will not be fulfilled ; on the con- 
trary, our side seems to be losing. 

"Patience," said Udibah, to comfort him, 
* l the sun has not yet sunk in the sea." 

This observation was true, no doubt, yet 
did Barak Hageb tarry no longer to philo- 
sophise, but set spurs into his horse and 
rode away. His wives followed hisexample. 

Sidi Ahmed, the conqueror, had heard 
many fine things about the fabulous wealth 
of Barak Hageb, and more especially about 

Digitized by G* 

14 The stars are not yet risen," replied the 
sage Roxana, and she added : "But there, 
by that tank, we will rest awhile. There 
you can perform your evening ablutions* 
Leave the rest to us, ft 

But never had Barak so little enjoyed 
his bath. 

The women meanwhile were plotting a 
stratagem. They cut off the horses* tails 
and made themselves false beards, so that 
they looked quite terrible. They cut bam- 
boo canes in the neighbouring thicket, and 
fastened their dainty little daggers to the 
end of them j thus they contrived excellent 
lances. When Barak Hageb returned from 




hts evening devotions, instead of his troop 
of docile wives, he found an army of bearded 
warriors ! He started, for they really 
looked very dreadful. 

\jarko the Tartar and Zibella the Indian 
commanded the light cavalry ; and on this 
occasion the wonder was wrought, that one 
woman would obey another's orders. To be 
sure, the times were evil. 

The tittle army formed in three divisions, 
and awaited the enemy's onslaught. Sidi 
Ahmed came rushing on in hot haste. But 
when he saw this force with beards flowing 
down to their stirrup-irons, his heart sank 
into the depths of his baggy pantaloons 
Before he had quite recovered from the 
shock, a tall warrior rode forth and called 
to him : u Sidi Ahmed! if you are not a 
coward, come out and try your strength 
with me in single combat. }} 

This hero was Zibella, so greatly skilled 
in casting the knife. Nor did her cunning 
betray her, She flung her javelin, and Sidi 
Ahmed was that instant a dead man ; he 
had not time to drop from his horse, 

The rest of the Amazons, under the com- 


mand of Jarko, now pressed on the enemy. 
But Stdi Ahmed's followers did not like 
the look of things. Five halfpence are in- 
deed a handsome sum, but even for such a 
guerdon as this a man will not give his skin 
to be punctured ad libitum. So each man 
flung his shield over hh back, which he 
turned on the adversary, and the horsenitn 
fled as fast as feet could carry them, shout- 
ing as they went : " The Tartars are on us, 
the barbarians are at our heels ! Ten thou- 
sand — twenty thousand — a hundred thou- 
sand fighting men have risen up to protect 
Barak Hageb ! Ride for your lives — ride ! 
The Tartars shoot with lightnings ! f} 

" Now you see that my prophecy is ful- 
filled ! " said Koxana to Barak Hageb. 
4i Sidi Ahmed lies dead before you/ 1 

"And mine, too, will yet come true," 
said lldibah, u Our enemy's realm will 
perish. Let us hasten to Kerman ! '' 

So they cut off the dead Sultan's head, 
and set it on a lance. With this badge of 
victory they rode in triumph to Kerman, 
their followers increasing from hour to 

hour. The soldiers 
who had ran away 
came out of their 
h i d ing -p i aces , a n d 
joined the array, so 
that it was a large 
force by the time 
they crossed the 
frontier- The gates 
of the towns were 
flung open joyfully, 
lor every one was 
now ready to say 
that Sidi Ahmed 
had, in truth, been 
a tyrant, and Barak 
Hageb was hailed as 
a deliverer, and was 
finally proclaimed as 

This conclusion, 
which is so strange 
that no one will be- 
lieve this history, 
though it is the 
literal truth, hap- 
pened in the year 
after the flight of 
the Prophet 6r2. 

by Google 

Original from 

(""rw^nL'' Original from 


Drawn and Etched by Her Majesty the Queen. 

by Google 

Original from 

Pictures with Histories. 

PICTURE within a picture 
— there isa romance surround- 
ing every canvas a story 
hidden away with every 
product of the pencil or 
brush. Our frontispiece/* The 
Queen's First Baby," provides an excellent 
example. During the first few years of Her 
Majesty's married life a room in Buckingham 
Palace was fitted up with all necessities 
for printing etchings, and here the Queen 
and Prince Consort would come and take 
impressions of their own work from the 
printing press. It is such a one that we 
are enabled to reproduce — a fac-simtk of 
an etching, sketched in the first place, pre- 
pared and put on 
the press, and 
finally printed by 
the Royal mother 
of the little one it 
represents. The 
uriginal etching 
is now in the 
possession of the 
writer. It is pro- 
bably the earliest 
picture known of 
the Empress 
Frederick of Ger- 



Royal at the time 
— for the etching 
bears date Feb- 
ruary 22 } 1 841, 
when the Prin- 
cess was but three 
months old. 
Every line, every 
item betokens 
how anxious the 
Royal artist was 
to obtain a faith- 
ful drawing of her 
first child, whose 
name, 4 'Victoria," 
is written under 
it. The little 
Princess is so held 

that the nurse's face is quite concealed, and 
in no way divides the attention the mother 
was desirous of winning for her little one- 
When the Queen was making the sketch, 
a cage with a parrot had been placed on a 
table near at hand, in order to rivet the 

Th* jirtf portrait painted afttr for {.onmatiaa. 

child's attention. The whole thing U 
suggestive of the simplicity and homeliness 
which characterised the dispositions of the 
Royal workers at the press ; and we think 
the picture tells its own history of life in 
the Palace fifty years ago. 

The history as to how the first portrait 
of Her Majesty after her coronation was 
obtained is also full of interest. The 
Queen is represented in all her youthful 
beauty in the Royal box at Drury Lane 
Theatre, and it is the work of E. T. Parri? f 
a fashionable portrait painter of those days. 
Parris was totally ignorant of the fact that 
when he agreed with Mr* Henry Graves, 
the well-known publisher, to paint ^ the 

portrait uf a ladv 
for fifty guineas/' 
he would have to 
localise himselr 
amongst the 
musical instru- 
ments of the or- 
chestra of the 
National Theatre, 
and handle his 
pencil in the im- 
mediate neigh- 
bourhood of the 
big drum* 
Neither was he 
made aware as to 
the identity of 
his subject until 
the eventful night 
arrived. Bun 11 
was the manager 
of Drury Lane at 
the time, and he 
flatly refused to 
accommodate Mr. 
Graves with two 
seats in the or- 
chestra. But the 
solution of the 
difficulty was 
easy. Bunn was 
indebted to 
Grieve, the scenic 
artist, for a thousand pounds. Grieve was 
persuaded to threaten to issue a writ for 
the money unless the " order for two M 
was forthcoming. Bunn succumbed, and 
the publisher triumphed ; and whilst the 
young Oucen watched the performance, 




she was innocently sitting for her picture 
to Parris and Mr. Graves, who were 
cornered in the orchestra. Parris after- 
wards shut himself up in his studio, and 
never left it until he had finished his work. 
The price agreed upon was doubled, and 

the Queen signified 
her approval of the 
tact employed by 
purchasing a con- 
siderable number of" 
the engravings. The 
reproduction of the 
picture in these 
pages becomes the 
more interesting 
from the fact that it 

the thick cord, and, fraying out one of the 
ends, improvised a really excellent substi- 
tute wherewith to lay on the paste. The 
bru^h of rope was found next morning on 
the floor, where he had left it, and told a 
story of such ingenuity as certainly de- 
mands a word of recognition. 

It is probable that were a novelist to 
concoct a plot out of the story surrounding 
a certain Sir Joshua Reynolds in the posses- 
>i<-n uf Lord Crewe, the public would snap 
their finger* at it and dub the whole thing 
ridiculous and impossible. 

A former Lord Crewe had a picture 
painted of his son and daughter. Though 
the faces were faithful, the attitudes of the 
figures were somewhat fanciful ; the daugh- 
ter is holding a vase, and 
the boy is posing as a cupid. 
When the sou had grown to 


is done by permission of the still living 
occupant of one of the two orchestra seats 
— Mr. Henry Graves, 

Much might be said regarding missing 
and mutilated pictures. The story as to 
how Gainsborough's u Duchess of Devon- 
shire H was cut from the frame a few days 
after 10,100 guineas had been paid for it is 
well known, but we may add a scrap of 
information hitherto unpublished, which 
will, we think, add somewhat to the value 
of the -work as a picture with a history. 
The ingenious thief knew very well that in 
order to get his prize in safety through 
the streets it would be necessary to roll it 
up. This, of course, could not be done 
without cracking the paint. Accordingly, 
he had provided himself with paste and 
paper to lay over the picture. But when 
he came to lav the paper on the canvas, he 
found that he had forgotten — a brush ! The 
people who flocked to see the beautiful 
*' Duchess " were kept at a respectful dis- 
tance by the customary barrier of silken rope. 
The clever purloiner cut off a few inches of 

Digitized by Gt 

manhood he quarrelled with his father, and 
he, to mark his extreme anger, caused the 
cupid to be cut out of the canvas, giving 
instructions for it to be destroved, and a 
tripod painted in its place. Thus it re- 
mained for over a hundred years. But the 
little cupid was not lost. It had, by some 
mysterious means, after this lapse of time, 
found its way into the hands of a dealer* 
who recognised it, having seen an engraving 
of the original before it was cut. He im- 
mediately communicated with the present 
Lord Crewe, who still had the picture* It 
was found that the cupid fitted exactly into 
the space where the tripod stood. Lord 
Crewe not only caused the cupid to be re- 
stored to its proper place, but, in order to 
commemorate this remarkable incident, 
took out the now historical tripod, had a 
piece of canvas with appropriate scenery 
painted, and caused the tripod to be inserted 
therein. The cupid now hangs in his house 
a> a memento of a strange act on the part 
of one of hts ancestors. 

Lord Cheylesmore, well known as having 
Original from 



2 2<) 

one of the finest collections of Landseers 
in the world, has a dog painted by this 
great artist, with a curious story attached to 
it* After Charles Landseer had" all but com- 
pleted the patn ting of his celebrated picture 
of fci Charles I. at Edge Hill, 11 he persuaded 
hb brother Edwin to paint in a dog. This 
Sir Edwin consented to do ; and, after the 
work was engraved, the original got into 
the hands of a dealer, who cleverly cut out 
the dog, and had another put in place 
of it. He secured 
the services of an 
able artist to 
paint a back- 
ground for the 
animal which had 
been so iguomini- 
ously deprived of 
the honour of re- 
clining in the 
presence of 
Charles I. This 
he sold as a Land- 
seer — as, indeed, 
it was ; and this 
highly interest- 
ing little creature 
is the one now 
owned by Lord 
Cheylesmore. As 
regards that of 
M Charles I . at 
Edge Hill," we 
believe we are 
correct in saying 
that it was re- 
cently purchased 
by the Walker 
Art Gallery at 

A somewhat 
similar circum- 
stance befell Hol- 
beinV famous 
picture of *' The 

Field of the Cloth of Gold/' which hangs at 
Hampton Court Palace, After the execution 
of Charles I., Cromwell proposed to sell many 
of the late monarch's pictures to dealers 
and others who approached him on the 
subject, and amongst others that painted 
by Holbein. Negotiations for the purchase- 
concluded, the time came round for its 
delivery. On examining k4 The Field of the 
Cloth of Gold " it was discovered that one 
of the principal faces — that of Henry VIII. 
— had been cut out in a complete circle* 
Naturally, the dealer — a foreigner — declined 

Digitized by Gt 

well's time. 

be in *■ 


to conclude the bargain* and the mutilated 
Holbein was stowed away. After the 
Restoration, a nobleman appeared at court 
and begged Charles II. to graciously accept 
an article which the king might possibly be 
glad to know was still preserved to the En glish 
nation. It proved to be a circular piece of 
canvas, representing the robust countenance 
of Henry VIII., which the nobleman had 
himself cut from the picture in Cronv 
This great work was seen at 
the Tudor Exhi- 
bition last year, 
the mark of the 
plainly visible. 

The fact of a 
picture worth 
^"lOjOoo being 
converted into a 
sort of bullseye 
mark for school 
boys' marbles is 
a little history in 
itself. The work, 
by Gainsborough, 
is that of the 
Honourable Miss 
Duncombe — a 
renowned beauty 
of her day, who 
lived at Dalby 
Hall, near Mel- 
ton Mowbray. 
She married 
General Bo water, 
For over fifty 
years this mag- 
nificent work of 
art had hung in 
the hall of this old 
house in Leices- 
tershire, and the 
children, as they 
played and 
romped about the 
ancient oaken staircases, delighted to make 
a target of the Gainsborough, and to 
throw their marbles at the beauty- It 
hung there year after year, full of holes, 
only to be sold under the hammer one day 
for the sum of ^"6, a big price for the torn and 
tattered canvas. The owner of the bargain 
let it go for £18$ t$&. t the lucky purchaser 
this time being Mr, Henry Graves, The 
day it came into the famous print seller's 
shop in Pall Mall, Lord Chesterfield offered 
[,ooo guineas for it, at which price it was 

sold. But romance^ run freely amongst all 
Original Tram J 




things pertaining to pictures, for 
before the work was delivered a 
fever seized Lord Chesterfield and 
he died. Lady Chesterfield was 
informed that, if she wished, the 
agreement might be cancelled. Her 
ladyship replied that she was glad 
of this, as she did not require the 
picture, which accordingly remained 
in Mr, Graves* shop waiting for 
another purchaser. It had not long 
to wait. One of the wealthiest and 
most discriminating judges of pic- 
tures in England, Baron Lionel 
Rothschild, came in search of it, and 
the following conversation between 
him and the owner, Mr + Graves, 
ensued : 

" You ask me fifteen hundred 
guineas for it ? M exclaimed the great 
financier, when he was told the price; 
" why, you sold it the other day for 
a thousand ! M 

" Yes, I know 1 did," replied the 
dealer, M but that was done in a 
hurry* before it had been restored* 1 ' 

11 Well, now 1*11 give you twelve 
hundred for it — twelve hundred/ 1 
said the Baron, looking longingly at 
the work. 

''Now, Baron," said Mr. Graves, 
good-humouredly, though firmly , 
u if you beat me down another 
shilling, you shan't have the 
picture at all." 

11 Very good— then 
send it home at fi ft een 


lilized by \j 


tiif honourable miss PfNXOMBE. By Gains&ar&ugk. 

hundred guineas/' It is now amongst 
the most valued artistic treasures of the 

Rothschilds, and 
£\qs>qq would 
not buy it to-day. 
The two illuV- 
i rations we now 
give of pictures 
— one of which is 
still missing and 
the other recov- 
ered after a long 
lapse of time — 
are both after Sir 
Joshua Reynolds. 
It is certain that 
the missing one 
will never be seen 
again. Reward 
after reward has 
been offered, but 
all to no avail — 
u Thc Countess of 

at the ■fauttt/ 1 Original from Derb y>" bv Sir 




Joshua, so far as the original g^es, is a thing 
.of the past, The mystery as to its sudden 
disappearance has never been fully cleared 
up, but it is indisputable that the Earl of 
Derby of the period had this picture painted 
of his wife, that he quarrelled with her, and 
that just at this time the picture vanished, 
Little room is left for doubt lhat the Earl 
himself destroyed the work. 

The other is 
that of Miss Gale, 
painted when >he 
was fifteen, a can- 
vas worth at least 
£?&qq (p age 
232), She married 
Admiral Gardner, 
who was so much 
attached to his 
wife, that when- 
ever he went to 
sea he always took 
the picture with 
him, and had it 
conspicuous] y 
hung up in Ins 
cabin. His vessel 
was wrecked off 
the West Indies, 
and though the 
Admiral was 
saved, the ship, 
with 4i Miss Gale" 
in the cabin, went 
down. There it 
lav at the bottom 
of the ocean for 
a considerable 
period, until at 
last attempts 
were made to 
recover it. This 
was successfully 
though the can- 
vas was much 
damaged, and 
was after war 1U 

reduced in length and breadth. The pic- 
ture seems to have been peculiarly unfor- 
tunate, both on laud and s^h. for in 1864 
it was damaged again bv the Midland 
Railway, Until recently it was in tbc 
possession of the Rev, Allen Gardner Corn- 
wall . 

The fact of a picture of fabulous value 
being picked up in a pawnbroker's shop, or 
veritable gems being discovered fastened 
with tin-tacks to the wall of a servant's 

the LOtfsrrEMh oi-' dekhv. /iy Sir J^hua RxynM** 

bedroom, is alone sufficient cause to rank 
them among pictures with a history. But 
surely no such remarkable instance of 
innocence regarding the real value of 
a work has been known for a long 
time as that which came to light in 
a West End picture dealer's shop a few 
weeks ago, The story is a simple one. A 
painter — presumably an amateur — ran short 

of canvas, and, 
living in the 
country, some 
days must needs 
elapse before he 
could get a fresh 
supply. Hanging 
up in his house 
wa* an old work, 
representing an 
ancient - looking 
gentleman. He 
had hung there a 
long time, practi- 
cally unnoticed. 
To meet the 
emergency, the 
painter conceived 
a happy thought, 
and one which he 
immediately pro- 
ceeded to carry 
into effect. Why 
not paint on the 
back of the 
ancient - looking 
gentleman who 
had hung un- 
cared-for for so 
long ? The can- 
vas was taken off 
the stretcher, 
turned round, 
and re-stretched, 
the back of the 
picture being 
used on which to 
paint a copy of Sir 
Joshua Reynolds 1 
" Age of Innocence." Innocence there truly 
was— for the painting which the amateur 
had screened from view turned out to be a 
Gainsborough. The original Gainsborough 
is at the present moment at the back of 
the newly-painted picture, and is partly 
hidden by the stretcher, as shown in the 
^ketch (page 253), made as it lay by the 
counter in the dealer's shop. 

One artist might be singled out of whom 
it mav safel^itf ilTOtlfrtJwt he never painted 




a picture without a history attached to it, 
Landseer s works abound in suggestive in- 
cident and delightful romance. He would 
paint out of sheer gratitude a picture 
worth ^10,000 simply because an admirer, 
for whom he had executed a commission, had 
expressed his approval of the artist's genius, 
by paying him 
more money than 
that originally 
agreed upon* 
Such an incident 
as this was the 
means of bring- 
ing Landseer* 
brush to work on 
"The Maid and 
the Magpie," now 
in the National 

There are two 
or three anec- 
dotes — hitherto 
unpublished, we 
believe — ■ relating 
to pictures with 
histories t and 
associated with 
Landseer's name. 

It is said— and 
results have 
proved how justly 
— that Landseer 
never forgot a 
dog after once 
seeing it. li The 
Bible " is a rare 
instance of this. 
Mr. Jacob Bell 
referred to this 
work as " the 
property of a 
gentleman who 
was for many 
years a caiuildate 
for a picture by 
Sir E. Landseer T 
and kept a collie 
dog in the hope 
that he might 
some day l be so fortunate as to obtain 
his portrait/' The collie, however, died. 
Some two years afterward?, its owner 
received a note from Sir Edwin appoint- 
ing a day for a sitting. Fortunately t he 
had provided himself with another dog, 
hoping yet to secure the services of the 
greatest of all animal painters, and taking 

Digitized by vjOOQIv 

miss t.ALj-:. Hv Sir y^htta AVr/M.V.v. 

the creature with him, kept the appoint- 
ment on the day named. He told Land- 
seer that the old favourite was dead, and 
gave a description of his colour and general 

ki Oh ! yes," the painter reylied, " I know 
the dog exactly/' and he made a sketch 

which proved the 
truth of his 
words. The pic- 
ture was painted 
in less than two 
days, and the 
portrait of the 
dead animal was 
exact, even to the 
very expression 
of the dog's eye, 
Landseer ? too, 
was often very 
happy in his 
choice of a sub- 
ject. u Dignity 
and Impudence ■' 
is one of the trea- 
sures of the 
National Gallery, 
and though the 
one is a fine blood- 
hound named 
11 Grafton," and 
the other a little 
terrier called 
M Scratch/' it is 
likely that two 
gentlemen inno- 
cently suggested 
the whole thing 
to him. It seems 
that one day 
Landseer entered 
a picture shop, 
and was annoyed 
at the way itl 
which he was 
treated by one of 
the assistants, 
who mistook him 
for a customer, 
and who ad- 
dressed him in a 
style a trifle too pushing and businesslike 
to suit his taste, 

Just then the proprietor entered, a fine, 
handsome, dignified man, 

11 Well, have yon got anything new in 
the way of a picture ? " he asked, 

"No/' replied Landseer, '* but Fve just 
got a subject Til let you know when it is 




finished.' 1 The result was the picture 
referred to, and it is said that the grand 
bloodhound bore a striking resemblance to 
the picture dealer, whilst the little terrier, 
presumably, was suggested by the assistant ; 
whose manner, after all, was simply that of 
a sharp man of business, 

"There's Life in the Old Dog Yet, TI 
another fine work, was, in 1857, the pro- 
perty of Mr. Henry McConneltj for whom 
it was painted in 1838. Mr, McConnell 
waa asked if he would lend it to the Art 
Treasures Exhibition at Manchester. He 
had a very great horror of railway travelling, 
but agreed to grant the request on one con- 
dition j that the picture, with the others 
asked for, should be sent down by rnad, 
Everything was 
packed up, and 
the precious load 
started on its 
journey* The 
van had got about 
half-way to Man* 
Chester, when, in 
passing over a 
level crossing — 
common enough 
in those days — 
the hones were 
startled by an 
train. It was im- 
possible to get 
across the lines 
in time, and the 
engine dashed 
into the van, 
shattering many 
of the pictures, 
including *' There's Life in the Old Dog 
Yet," So great was the destruction that 
when the driver went to the front wheel of 
the engine, he found entwined round it a 
piece of the canvas of this famous picture. 

An anecdote might be told regarding 
"The Cavalier's Pets," further illustrating 
the rapid rate at which Land seer worked, 
and the fate which seemed to hang over 
his canine subjects. The dogs were pets of 
Mr, Vernon's, and a sketch was made in his 
house as a commission to Sir Edwin. It 
seems, however, that Landseer forgot all 
about it, until sometime afterwards he was 
met by the owner of the pets in the street, 
who gently reminded him of his little com- 
mission. In two days the work as it is now 
seen was completed and delivered, though 
not a line had been put on the canvas 

I HJ- Hir>DHN "i.UNMJi'Ki.U.H, 

pre viuus to the meeting* Both the beauti- 
ful creatures came to an untimely end. 
The white Blenheim spaniel was killed by 
a fall from a table, whilst the King Charles 
fell through the railings of a staircase at 
his master's house, and was picked up dead 
at the bottom of the steps. 

We cannot do better than conclude with 
an anecdote which connects this great 
painter with the early life of Her Majesty, 

That the Queen has always displayed a 
marked interest in works of art is indis- 
putable. Her collection of pictures, many 
of them of the Flemish and Dutch schools, 
her Vandykes and Rubens, are almott 
priceless* But Her Majesty's favours be- 
stowed on matters artistic have also drifted 

into home chan- 
nels, as witness 
her generous 
spirit shown at all 
times towards Sir 
Edwin Landseer. 
Amongst all 
the priceless 
works to be found 
in the Royal 
galleries, one pic- 
ture may here be 
singled out with 
a pleasing story 
attached to it, 
* l Loch Laggan" 
sho\\> the Queen 
in a quiet and un- 
assuming gown, 
beside her camp- 
stool, at which 
she has a few 
moments before 
been sketching. The Princess Royal and 
the Prince of Wales are there as children. 
In the centre stands a pony with a burden 
of deer on its back, its owner, a stalwart 
Highlander, at its head, with an expression 
of countenance half-amused, half-surprised. 
Sir Edwin Landseer — who painted the 
picture — was at the time in Scotland giving 
lessons to the Queen. Whilst on his way 
to Balmoral he wandered in the direction of 
Loch Laggan, and became perplexed as to 
which path to take. Espying the High- 
lander, he bade him hasten to find the 
Queen, and sav that Sir Edwin would reach 
her ere long. The man needed no second 
bidding, and jumped on the pony's back. 
He had not proceeded far round the lake 
before he drew up his pony in front of a 
lady, wh;q>j cfjif^a | sketching, whilst her two 




children were busying themselves by hand- 
ing her the various drawing implements as 

Respectfully removing his cap, he asked 
if she could tell him where he might possibly 
find the Queen. 

41 Oh, yes/* replied the lady T turning from 
her drawing, " I am the Queen," 

This was too much for the worthy Scot. 
He could not associate the great stone on 
which Her Majesty had been sitting with 

all the splendour of a throne. All he could 
do wan to put his hands upon his knees 
and suggestively utter the single word — 
ki Gammon ! " 

By this time Sir Edwin had arrived. He 
drew the picture with the Highlander in 
the very act of relieving himself of an ex- 
pression not often heard in the presence 
of Royalty, Our drawing is a sketch 
of the figures in the painting of this highlv 
interesting scene. 

'i;avmi>n V 

by Google 

Original from 

Making an Angel. 

By J, Harwood Panting. 

ROTESOUE-yes, that is the 
word for the gathering. 

An ogre cannot always 
enjoy the regal society of a 
king ; nor can it be said that 
the featuro of Hodge are 
usually to be seen glancing, with grinning 
condescension, upon a grave Prime Minister. 
There were other anomalies too numerous 
to mention, in the room ; for this was one 
of the workshops of the curious Kingdom 
of Make*Believe, of which, at the present 

time, if we may 
except the aforesaid 
company, John Far- 
ley was the solitary 

John Farley, nicknamed M Daubs/ 5 was 
scene-painter of the Comedy Theatre, 
Porchester, and this was the room whence 
proceeded those marvellous: designs that 


stirred the gallery to enthusiastic applause, 
the boxes to derisive laughter. 

It was the season of pantomime. The 
curtain had been rung down upon the 
14 grand phantasmagorical, allegorical, and 
whimsicorical " legend of kk King Pippin/' 
and the denizens of that monarch's court — 
or, rather, their faces — \\\^^ resting peace- 
fully from their labours on the wall. John 
Farley, too, was presumably resting from 
his labours, for he was sitting upon a wooden 
stool, smoking vigorously, and gazing, with 
a far-away glance, into the region of No- 
where, It was not a satisfied expression, 
this of John Far ley f s — no, decidedly not. 
It appeared to have a quarrel with the 
world, hut did not seem to know precisely 
at which quarter of it to commence 
hostilities. Truth to tell, he was a dis- 
appointed man. He had started life, as 

many another, with 
high aims and am- 
bitions, and they had 
brought him no better 
fruit than scene- 
painter to the Por- 
ch ester Theatre, with, 
instead of academic 
diplomas and hon- 
ours, the unflattering 
title of " Daubs ! M 
Do you wonder, then t 
that sitting there, a 
man verging upon 
the *' thirties," he 
looked upon life with 
little love, and upon 
the constituents of its 
big constituency with 
little admiration ? 

John had a private 
grievance as well as 
a public. He lived 
in a flat of a block 
of houses situate in 
Seymour-street t about 
a quarter of an hour\ 
walk from the thea- 
tre. For some days 
past he had determined on making another 
bid for fame and fortune by painting a 
grand picture. He had commenced various 
designs fcr this " masterpiece," but none 




of them had proved entirely satisfactory. 
And now, as though to frustrate all his 
hopes, a new source of disturbance had 
arisen.* John possessed one of those mer- 
curial, nervous temperaments, born prin- 
cipally of a morbid, solitary life, which 
demanded absolute quiet for any profitable 
employment of the intellect. For this 
reason he detested the atmosphere of a 
theatre, and for this reason he yet 
more detested the fate that had cast his 
fortunes irt its midst. In the apartments 
where he lived, mean as they were, he 
usually found 
tranquillity- He 
could at least 
think, smoke, 
sketch, or write, 
as the fit took 
him, without dis- 
turbance. But 

was that, think as he would, the subject of 
this grand picture which was to take the 
world by storm and out-Raphael Raphael, 
persisted in evading hi ni ; and thus it is 
we find him, in a more cynical mood than 
usual, at the Comedy Theatre, in no haste 
to return to the scene of his failures, 

u What is the use of striving ?" mused 
John, as he slowly puffed his pipe. S( One 
might as well throw up the sponge. Fate 
is too much for me. He follows at my 
elbow everywhere. His usual running- 
ground is not enough for him. Now he 

\\i\w\ just at 


time when he 
most desired and 
needed quiet, the 
bugbear he fled 
had attacked him 
in his very strong- 

In the rooms 
beneath those he 
occupied lived a 
poor widow with 
her two children , 
a boy and girl. 
John knew this 
much from the 
landlady. He 
knew, too, that 
the boy was em- 
ployed at the 
Comedy Theatre. 

Further than this he had not cared to 
inquire- Usually they were as quiet as 
the proverbial mouse, but latterly John's 
ears had been afflicted with groans and 
cries of pain, proceeding from the widow's 
apartments, and kept up with aggravate 
ing regularity throughout the night. They 
were the cries of a child — no doubt about 
that — and a child in great suffering. A 
person less centred in his own projects 
than John might have at least felt some 
sympathy with the sufferer, but John 
had evidently lost kinship with the deeper 
emotions, and instead of sympathy he ex- 
perienced only a feeling of annoyance and 
keen resentment against the widow and 
u her brats," as he styled them. Thus it 

1 IT WAS AN nil 

follows me home, and gives me a solo of his 
own peculiar music through one of his 

A timid knock sounded upon the door. 
John was busy with his thoughts, and did 
not hear it. 

i4 That theory of Longfellow's is correct 
— art is long. In what sphere could you 
find a longer ? Supportable might this be, 
but cold indifference to a poor devil aching 
for a gleam of sympathy is insupportable. f * 

The knock at the door was repeated, but 
with the same effect as before. 

"The grinning public — -just tickle its 
side : that is all it needs. He who caters 
most to its stupidity in life is he who gains 
the proud distinction of a public mausoleum 




at his death. I have not got quite into the 
way, but still I see in perspective a monu- 
ment dedicated to— 4 Daubs.' ,f 

A sound, light as gossamer wing, was 
heard in the room. John Farley turned 
his head. Then he stared ; then he rubbed 
his eyes ; then he stared again. Well he 
might. Was this an offspring of the im- 
mortal whom he had just been apostro- 
phising ? 

It was decidedly an imp — at least it had 
the apparel of one. It was clothed in 
scarlet ; dependent from its haunches was 
a tail ; on its head a Satanic cowl. But 
there was melancholy rather than mischief 
in its eye, and it was of a restful, confiding 
brown rather than an unrestful, flashing 

John again inserted his knuckles in his 
eyes, and waved off the smoke from his 
pipe. And then he recognised his uncanny 
visitor. It was the little son of the widow 
who lived under his flat. He was one of 
the imps of King Pippin's kingdom in the 
pantomime, and doomed for a small pittance 
to indulge his apish tricks nightly with the 
gnomes and fairies of that fanciful realm. 

44 Daubs ! " said the imp. 

Yes, only that was necessary to incite 
John's wrath. A nickname that was 
supportable from the actors and scene- 
shifters was insupportable from a child. 

44 Daubs " therefore turned sharply upon 
the boy : — 

44 Are you referring to me ? " 

44 Yes, sir." 

John was on the point of brusquely in- 
forming the lad that he was not acquainted 
with a gentleman of the name of Daubs, 
and peremptorily showing him the door. A 
glance from the honest brown eyes, how- 
ever, restrained him. It told him that 
what he had at first assumed to be impu- 
dence was really the result of ignorance — 
that, and only that. 

44 1 would like to know you, Mr. Daubs. 
You don't mind knowing a little boy — do 
you ? " 

John opened his eyes in astonishment. 
What a curious imp ! John was not aware 
that anybody had any particular desire for 
his society; in fact, the reverse had hitherto 
seemed the case. He was usually regarded 
as an unsociable being. 

<4 1 have not the least objection to making 
your acquaintance," said he, ////reluctantly, 
it must be confessed. 

44 Oh, thank you," said the little fellow, 
drawing nearer, and putting his hand con- 

Digitized by CjOOQ I C 

fidingly in John's, and looking up at him 
with bright, happy eyes. " Then perhaps 
I may — may I ? " 

What " may I " meant was a gentle 
pressure of the lips upon the smoky cheek 
of John. If John had been astonished 
before he was still more astonished now — 
so much so that the pipe he was smoking 
fell from his fingers, and was broken into 
fragments on the floor. What had he, a 
grumpy bachelor, to do with kissing? 
Twenty years had passed since his cheek 
had felt the pressure of lips, and then they 
were the death-cold lips of a younger 
brother — surely about the size of this strange 
imp — who had left him with that dumb 
farewell for ever. 

" What is your name, my lad ? " said he, 

k4 Willie Maxwell. Mother calls me 4 her 
Willie.' Dodo— that is my sister, you know 
— when she is well " (here the little fellow 
sighed) 4i says that I'm her pet. But at the 
theatre I'm only known as 4 Fourth Imp.' 
Mr. Billings " — Mr. Billings was the stage- 
manager of the Comedy — 44 has promised 
that, if I'm a good boy, I shall some day be 
First Imp ! " 

44 That will be a rise in the world, and no 
mistake/' remarkedjohn. 

44 Well, Mr. Daubs, it will be a little more 
money for mother — threepence extra a 
night — but I shouldn't like to push out 
Teddy Morris. You know Teddy ? " 

John was obliged to confess that he had 
not the honour of that young gentleman's 
acquaintance. He never troubled himself 
witli anything or anybody outside his own 

44 Teddy Morris is First Imp. He doesn't 
like me, you know, because he thinks I'm 
— what do you call it, Mr. Daubs ? " 

44 Ambitious?" 

44 Yes, 'bitious, that's the word." 

John's crusty humour was gradually 
melting, and he smiled — first, at anyone 
disliking this frank, affectionate boy ; next, 
at the rivalry of the imps. 44 A11 the 
world," thought he, 44 is indeed a stage, afid 
the struggle for a position on it extends to 
strange quarters." 

44 But I'm not 'bitious, Mr. Daubs "—here 
Willie paused, and deliberately climbed on 
John's knee — 4i no, I really ain't, 'cept of 
you ! " 

John started at this bold confession. He 
was on the point of exploding into loud 
laughter, but the brown eyes were looking 
earnestly into his, and with these searching 




witnesses before him John thought that 
such an ebullition of mirth would be little 
short of profanation. 

M Oh, you're ambitions of me, are you ? 
Well, my little man, if it's your inten- 
tion to supplant me as scene-painter to the 
Comedy Theatre, Fm exceedingly grateful 
Lo you for giving me due notice of the fact* 
Only let me know when you think I ought 
to resign my position, won't you ? v 

tl Yes," assented Willie, with childish 
naivete; and then, j 

putting his head 
nearer to John's, 
as though to take 
him into still 


I'AiNTiNfis vkkv hahd, sin— aint 

closer confidence — "Do you know, I've 
often seen you, and wanted to speak to you, 
but somehow IVe not liked to, I've 
watched you when you weren't looking, and 
you've always seemed * to look like — you 
don't mind a little boy saying it, Mr. Daubs 
— like that." Willie pointed to a mask of 
one of the ogres. John did not think the 
comparison very flattering, and felt very 
uncomfortable. The next instant the child 
was nestling closer to him ; a pair of thin 
arms were clasped tightly round John's 
neck ; and the lips which again pressed 
his whispered softly: "But you're not a 
bit tike that now, Mr. Daubs." 

Then the comparison was forgiven, but 
not forgotten 

"Tell me, Willie,, why you are ambitious 
of me i Ambitious of me,*' John mentally 

by L^OOgle 

added, *' who thought myself the least etivied 
mortal in the world I tf 

Willie's only answer was to take John's 
big hand into his small one ; then he insti- 
tuted a minute comparison between the 
two ; then he patted it fondly ; then he 
dropped it suddenly, and remained buried 
in deep thought. John gave himself up to 
the child's whim. It was a delicious expe- 
rience — the more delicious because unex- 
pected. This was an infantile world, made 
up of quaint ideas and actions, of which 
even the memory had been almost oblite- 
rated from his mind. Thought took him 
back to its last link — that 

J which had been rudely 

snapped bv the death of his 
brother. He sighed, and the 
sigh was echoed, 

tk It will be a long while — 
many years, I suppose, Mr. 
Daubs — before my hand gets 
like yours ? " 

Mr. Daubs thought it would 
be. Willie sighed again, 
" Paintings very hard, sir — 
ain't it ? f ' 

"Oh, no T my boy; it's the 
easiest thing in the 
world," said the artist 
bitterly ; "and the 
world accepts it at its 
right value, for it is 
never inclined to pay 
very dearly for it. Just 
a few paints, a brush, 
and there you are,'' 

14 Well, Mr. Daubs, 
I hardly think l hat's 
quite right— you don't 
my saying so, do you ? — -'cause I 
up a shilling and bought a paint- 
brush and some paints, and tried ever si> 
hard to make a picture, but it was no use. 
No, it was nothing like a picture — all 
smudge, you know — so I thought that 
p'raps God never meant little boys should 
make pictures, and that I would have to 
wait till I grew up like you, Mr. Daubs'' 

" It's as well somebody should think I 
can paint pictures ; but do you know, my 
young art critic, that many persons have 
no higher estimate of my efforts than you 
have of yours — that is to say," seeing the 
eyes widening in astonishment, "their term 
for them is * smudge !'" 

" No, do they say that ? No, Mr. Daubs, 
they wouldn't dare,'' said Willie, indig- 
nantly* ki Why, you paint lovely horses 
Original from 





and flowers, and trees, and mountains, and 
your birds, if they could only sing, like the 
little bird Dodo once had, they would seem 
quite alive. v 

John had never had so flattering, nor so 
unique a criticism of his art. " Molfere," 
thought he, " used to read his plays to the 
children, and gather something from their 
prattle. Why should I disdain opinion 
from a like source, especially as it chimes 
in so beautifully with what my vanity 
would have had me acknowledge long 
since ?" 

" Well, youngster, admitting that I am 
the fine artist you would make of me, 
what then ? In what way do you expect 
to convert a world which prefers real horses, 
real trees, and real birds ? See, now, even 
here — at the Comedy Theatre — we have 
only to announce on the playbills that a 
real horse, a real steam-engine, or a real 
goose or donkey, for that matter, will be 
exhibited, and the best efforts of my artistic 
genius are thrown into the shade. You 
are a case in point. Could I draw an imp 
that would meet with half the success that 
you do ? But what nonsense I am talking 
— you don't understand a word of it." 

44 Oh, yes, Mr. Daubs, I do — something. 
Do you know what I think ? " 

" Say on, youngster." 

" I think we don't often know or think 
what is best for us. Mother says little 
boys don't always know what is best for 
them. { Real ' is a live thing — ain't it ? I 
used to think, Mr. Daubs, you were a real 
live ogre once. But now I know you ain't 
— are you ? " This with a pressure of the 
arms again round John's neck. What 
could the " real live ogre " say to such an 
appeal? After a pause: "Mr. Daubs, can 
I tell you something — may I ? " 

John assented, wondering what was the 
next strange thing this curious sprite would 

" And will you say ' yes ' to what I ask ? " 

John again assented, though he thought 
that possibly his assent might necessitate a 
journey to Timbuctoo. 

"Well, I want you to make me — an 
angtfl ! " And then he quickly added, seeing 
the startled expression on John's face, " You 
are so clever ! " 

" An angel ! " 

" Yes, an angel. You won't say no ? " 
There was a quiver of anxiety in the boy's 
tones. " It's for Dodo." 

" For Dodo ! But, child, I'm not a 
manufacturer of angels ! " 

Digitized by L^OOgle 

" But you can draw birds. Birds have 
wings, and so have angels, and it's for 
Dodo," he again repeated. 

The logic of Willie's reasoning was irre- 
futable. Where was John standing ? He 
scarcely knew. He had caught the boy's 
conception. This, then, was the reason of 
his anxiety to become an artist. Never imp 
was surely such a seraph ! The angel was 
for his sister. They were her moans and 
cries John had heard in his lonely chamber 
these three nights past, and it was with an 
angel her brother hoped, in his childish 
imagination, to bring relief from pain and 
suffering. With one quick flash of inspira- 
tion John sawitall — the intense longing, the 
all-embracing love, the unselfishness, the 
exquisite sense of bringing to suffering its 
one great alleviation. And as he thought, 
John's head dropped, and a tear fell on the 
eager, youthful face upturned to his. 

" Mother says that all angels are in heaven, 
and Dodo's always talking about angels. 
She says she wants to see one, and would 
like one to come to her. But they can't, 
Mr. Daubs, unless we first go to them. 
And I don't want — no, no, I don't want " 
— with a, big sob — " Dodo — to — go — away. 
If / could take it to her she would stay 

John's heart was full — full to overflow- 
ing. He could scarcely speak. 

11 Go — go, and change your clothes, 
youngster, and we will try to make you an 

" Oh, thank you so much." 

In a flash Willie was gone, and John was 
left alone. " Heaven help me ! " he said, 
with a tender, pathetic glance in the direc- 
tion whence the little figure had van- 
ished ; " Heaven help me ! " and John 
did what he had not done since his own 
brother died. He fell Upon his knees, and 
sent a hasty prayer heavenward for inspir- 
ation. Then he took a large piece of card- 
board, and some crayons, and commenced 
— making an angel ! He worked as one 
inspired. With nervous, skilful fingers he 
worked. All was silent in the great city 
below ; the stillness lent inspiration to the 
artist's imagination. Never had he seemed 
in Closer touch with Heaven. To give John 
his due, the petty contentions of men had 
always been beneath him, but the " peace 
which passeth understanding " had never 
been his, because of the selfishness by 
which his better nature had been warped. 
Now, through this child's /^selfishness, he 
almost heard the flapping of angelic wings, 




and he depicted theiu, in all their softened 
beauty, upon his cardboard, with a fact: be- 
tween that seemed to look out in ineffable 
love upon a guilt -laden world, This was 
what the artist wrought. 

"Oh, Mr. Daubs!" 

The exclamation was pregnant with 
meaning, Willie had returned, and was 
devouring with open mouth and eyes the 
sketch of the angel. 

u Well, youngster, do you think that will 
do for Dodo ? " 

''And that's for Dodo?'' was the only 
answer , for the boy was still absorbed in the 
artist's creation. 

"Have you ever seen an angel, Mr, 
Daubs ? Ah, you must have. I knew you 
were clever at horses, and trees, and birds, 
and skies, but I didn't guess you were so 
good at angels. It's just what mother said 
they were ! " 

u There, don't make me vain, but lake 
it; and*' — added John partly to himself, 
41 may the King of Cherubim hold in re- 
serve his messenger, not for a death-warrant, 
but a blessing ! " 

" Thank you, so much. Rut I'm going 
to pay you, you know/' And Willie drew 
out proudly an old pocket-handkerchief, 
and, applying his teeth vigorously to a 
special corner of it, took therefrom a six- 

John smiled, but took the coin without 
a word. Then he lifted the boy up. and 
kissed him tenderly. The next moment he 
was alone ; Willie had departed with his 
angel. The artist 
listened to the patter- 
ing footsteps as they 
descended the stairs, 
then bowed his head 
upon his arms, and 
what with his three 
nights of unrest, and 
thinking over what he 
had been and might 
have been j fell into a 
profound sleep. 

Not long had he 
been in the land of 
counterpane, when of 
a sudden there was a 
stir from without. 

The night atr was quick with cries, 
and a childish treble seemed to echo and 
re-echo above them all. There wa* 
something familiar in this latter sound. 
It was as a harsh note on a diapason that 

Digitized by GoOglc 

had but recently brought him sweetest 

In a moment John had gained the street. 
He had connected the cry with one object 
— Willie. That object had for him a value 
infinite, so quick in its power of attraction 
is the spark of sympathy when once 
kindled. Johns view of life had seemed, 
in this last half-hour, to have greatly 
widened. It took account of things pre- 
viously unnoticed ; it opened up feelings 
long dormant. His ear was strangely sen- 
sitive to the beat of this new pulse — so 
much so that a vague terror shaped itself 
out of that night-cry. It seemed to him to 
portend disaster. 

But surely his worst fears are realised! 
What is that moving mass away in the dis- 
tance ? Sonn John has reached the spot. 
He hears a hum of sympathy, and then 
there is a reverential silence ; John's ears 
have caught the pitying accents of a by- 
stander , u Poor lad ! Heaven help him ! " 
t£ Help him ! Help whom ? " 
John's mind is quick at inference. He 
parts the crowd, and with certain glance 
looks upon its point of observation. He 
knew it : no need of words to tell him, A 
little form is there, mangled with the hoofs 
of a horse. Its life-blood is slowly oozing 
out on the pavement. The face has the 
hue of death — no mistaking that — and yet 

it has around it 
something of the 
halo of saintship. 
John gazes as one 
distraught. The face 
he sees, now pinched 
with the agonies of 
death, is that of 
Willie Max- 

God, is it 
possible ?" 

But a brief 
moment or 
two since, it 
seemed to 
John, this 
poor boy was 




in the bloom of health, full of the radiant 
sunshine of life. Now the finger of death 
had touched him, and he stood on the 
threshold of the Kingdom of Shadows. 

For an instant John was ready to launch 
again his maledictions against Fate. The 
presence of this child had cast a ray of sun- 
shine on a sunless existence — had given to 
it a brief gleam of happiness, which was 
flickering out in this tragic way on the 
roadside. John had so frequently taken a 
selfish estimate of life, that even in this 
supreme crisis that feeling was momentarily 
uppermost, but only momentarily. The 
child was resting ip the arms of a rough 
carman, and as John looked a spasm of re- 
turning consciousness passed over the little 
sufferer's frame. Then there was a faint 
moan. Was there a chance of saving the 
boy's life ? John came closer, and as he did 
sera light seemed to radiate from the child's 
face on to his. 

Now the eyes are looking at him in a 
pained, dazed way. There is a gleam of 
recognition, and about the mouth flickers a 
smile of content. 

44 Mr. Da — Da — Daubs, — I'm — so — glad 
— you ' ve— come." 

John kneels on the ground, and kisses 
the pale, cold lips of the sufferer. The 
little arms are nervously at work ; then 
with an effort they are extended towards 
him : 44 Will you please take this, Mr. 
Daubs ? " 

John looked. It was the sketch of the 
angel ! 44 I'm so glad I didn't drop it. I 
held it tight, you see, Mr. Daubs — oh, so 
tight ! I was afraid Dodo wouldn't get it. 
No one knows Dodo, you see. I can't — 
take — it — to her — to-night ; so — will you 
— please ? " 

John's tears are falling fast upon the 
pavement. He seems to hear the stifled 
sobs of the bystanders as he takes in his 
hand the sketch of the angel. u I shall — 
see her — again — when the — light comes. 
Now — it is — so dark — and cold — so cold ! " 
John mechanically takes off his coat, and 
wraps it around the little form. 

44 Thank you — Mr. Daubs — you're — a — 

kind — gentleman. May I — may I ? " 

John had heard a similar request before 
that evening, and thanked God that he 
knew what it meant. He bent his face 
forward. i4 That for dear — dear mother, 
and that for— darling — sister — sister Dodo." 

As John's lips received the death -cold 
kisses, a strange thing happened. The 
picture of the angel w^s suddenly wrested 

liifzet byOoOglC 

from his grasp, and flew upward and up- 
ward, in shape like a bat. There was a 
moment of mystery — of intense darkness 
and solemn silence. Then the heavens 
were agleam with sunshine, and John 
seemed to see radiant forms winging their 
way earthward. One of these outsped the 
rest. Nearer and nearer it came, and John 
in wonderment fixed his gaze intently 
thereon. He had never seen a real angel 
before, but he recognised this one. It was 
the angel he had sketched, transfigured 
into celestial life. It came to where the 
child rested, and John fell backward, dazzled 
with its light. When he looked up again 
the child and the angel had both vanished, 
and all was again dark. 

44 Daubs, Daubs ! Wake up, wake up ! " 

John looked up with sleepy eyes. Where 
the deuce was he ? Not in any angelic 
presence, that was certain. The voice was 
not pitched in a very heavenly key, and 
wafted odours of tobacco and beer rather 
than frankincense and myrrh. John 
pinched himself to make sure he was awake. 
This was assuredly no celestial visitor, but 
Verges — that was his theatrical nickname — 
the Comedy Theatre watchman. 

44 Is it you, Verges ? Will you have the 
kindness to tell me where I am ? " John 
looked around him in bewilderment. The 
masks seemed grinning at him in an aggra- 
vating way. 

44 Well, you are at present, Mister, in the 
Comedy Theatre ; but you was just now 
very soundly in the land of Nod, I guess. 
You'd make a splendid watchman, you 
would ! " 

Verges' denunciation came with beautiful 
appropriateness, as he had just come from 
the public-house opposite, where he had 
been indulging in sundry libations for this 
hour past at the expense of some of its 

44 It is a dream, then — not a hideous 
reality ? Thank God, thank God ! " 

44 What's a dream ? " said Verges, look- 
ing with some apprehension at John. When 
he saw that gentleman begin to caper round 
the room his fears were not lessened, for he 
thought that John had taken leave of some 
of his senses. 

44 Am I awake now, Verges ? " 

44 Well, you look like it." 

44 You are certain ? " and he put a shilling 
into Verges' hand. 

* 4 I never kne^|j^>JLf t to be more waker. 


24 2 


You can keep on being as wide-awake as 
you please at the same price, Mister P' 

*' Give me my hat and coat, Verges. 
Thank you/' and John passed rapidly out 
at the door with a hasty u Good night ! " 
Verges looked after him with wide-mouthed 

bered t too, his bitter thoughts and words 
about the widow and her children — her 
4i brats ! fT So he mounted reluctantly to 
his apartments, How the silence— pre- 
viously so much desired — oppressed him ! 
He would eagerly have welcomed at that 


astonishment ; then he looked at the piece 
of money in his hand ; then he tapped his 
forehead j and shook his head ominously, 
muttering, " Daubs is daft — clean daft ! " 

John would not trust his waking senses 
till he reached the corner of the street at 
which he had seen so vividly in his dream 
the incidents just recorded. A solitary 
policeman was walking up and down, and 
not so much as a vehicle was to be seen. 
And then another fear took possession of 
John, Was his dream a presentiment of 
danger, and had an accident befallen Willie 
in some other form ? 

He soon reached his lodgings, hurried 
up the staircase, and listened fearfully out- 
side the widow's door. Nobody seemed 
astir, but he could see that a light was 
burning within. Should he knock ? What 
right had he, a perfect stranger, to intrude 
at this unreasonable hour? He remem- 

moment a cry, a sob, or any sound of life 
from the room below. But the sufferer 
gave no token, and John, in turn, became 
the sufferer in the worst form of suffering 
— that of mental anguish. 

He could stand it no longer, John 
determined, at any cost, to see whether or 
not Willie had returned in safety. So he 
descended, and knocked at Mrs. Maxwell's 

" Come in, 1 ' said a quiet voice, and John 
opened the door- The first thing that met 
his gaze was his picture of the angel hang- 
ing at the head of a child's cot. Beneath 
it h calmly asleep, was Dodo — Willie's sister. 
A frail morsel of humanity she seemed, 
with pale, almost transparent, complexion 
— the paler by its contrasting framework of 
golden hair, Mrs. Maxwell was busily en- 
gaged at needlework. She hastily rose 
when she iw her visitor. " I thought it 




was Mrs. Baker ?1 (Mrs, Baker was the 
landlady), she said. lt She usually looks in 
the last thing." 

u Pardon me for intruding, but I was 
anxious to know whether your son had 
arrived here in safety ? "' 

41 Yes, oh yes ; some time since* Are you 
the gentleman who gave him the angel ? " 

i( Yes/' said John, simply. 

11 Thank you so much ; you have made 
my little girl so happy* Children have 
strange fancies in sickness, and she has been 
talking about nothing but angels for days 
past. See,*' pointing to the sleeping child, 
" it is the first night she has slept soundly 
for a whole week,' 1 

The holiest feeling John had ever 
experienced since he knelt as a child at his 
mother's knee passed over him. Me had 
never before felt so thoroughly that a good 
action was its own reward* 

11 May I crave 
one great favour 
as a return for so 
trivial a service ? 
Will you let me 
seeyour son ? ?1 

The widow im- 
mediately arose, 
took a lamp, and 
beckoned John 
to follow her into 

the next room* There was little Willie 
fast asleep in his cot. His lips, even in his 
sleep, were wreathed in a happy smile, and 
as John bent and reverently kissed them, 
they murmured softly : "Mr. Daubs ! " 

When John again mounted to his 
chamber it was with a light heart. His 
evil angel— dissatisfaction- — had gone out of 
him, and his good angel — contentment — 
reigned in its stead. 

From that time forth he shared the 
widow's vigils ; he was to her an elder son — 
to the children, a loving brother. His heart, 
too, expanded in sympathy for his fellows, 
and uader this genial influence his energies, 
previously cramped, expanded also. The 
best proof I can give of this, if proof be 
necessary, is that the picture which he 
shortly afterwards exhibited, entitled u The 
Two Angels/ 1 was the picture nf the year, 
and brought to him the fame which had 

previously so per- 
sistently evaded 
him. One of the 
happiest mo- 
ments in his life 
was when he took 
Dodo — now quite 
recovered — and 
Willie to view his 

by Google 

Original from 

HE birthday 
card, as we 
know it 
now, can 
have been 
with us 
more than 

fifty or fifty-five years, and there is very 
little doubt that the more ancient reminder 
of St. Valentine's Day suggested the idea of 
putting a verse, appropriate to a birthday, 
in the place of the often far-fetched senti- 
ments of February the? fourteenth. Nearly 
all our later poets have contributed to 
birthday literature, and we may presume 
that the delightful morccaux which came 
from their pens were written on a 
card or sheet of paper, and quieth' dis- 
patched to the recipient. Eliza Cook f Tom 
Moore, Burns, Cowper, Johnson, Tom 
Hood, Charles Lamb, and Mrs. Hcmans 
have given to the world the most beautiful of 
thoughts within the limit- of a tour-line 
verse, Where is a more suggestive senti- 
ment — considered by many the finest of all 
such verse — than that which Pope addressed 
to Martha Blount ? — 

la that a birthday ? Tis, alas ■ too clear 
T is but the funeral of the former year* 


Thackeray, too, could write delightful 
lines. His daughter — Mrs, Thackeray* 
Kitchie— sent the following to the writer, 
written by her father to Miss Lucy Bat let 
in America : — 

Seventeen rosebuds in a ring, 
Thick with silver flowers beset 
In a fragrant coronet, 
T.ucy's servants this day bring, 
Be it the birthday wreath she wears, 
Fresh and fair and symbolling 
The young number of her years, 
The sweet blushes of her spring. 

Types of youth, and love, and hope, 
Friendly hearts, your mistress greet, 
Be you ever fair and sweet, 
And grow lovelier as you ope. 
Gentle nursling, fenced about 
With fond care, and guarded so, 
Scarce you've heard of storms without, 
Frosts that bite, and winds that blow \ 

Kindly has your life begun, 
And we pray that Heaven may send 
To our floweret a warm sun, 
A calm summer, a sweet end. 
And where'er shall be her home, 
May she decorate the place, 
Still expanding into bloom, 
And developing in grace* 

To-day our birthday poets are limited — 
not in numbers, for the publishers of cards 
arc inundated with verses — but in those 
of merit. One firm, indeed, during the 
last twelve or thirteen years has received 
no fewer than 150.000 compositions, of 
which number only some 5,600 have been 
found usable ; not a very great number, 
when it is remembered that something 
between ten and twelve millions of cards 
pass between well-wishers in this country 
alone ev^tqiytedrfromd that a similar 




quantity are exported to the United States, 
India, China, and the Colonies. From five 
shillings to two or JtAJUWUUU „ kJtJU 
three guineas repre- 
sents the market 
value of a birthday 
poem, and the shorter 
such expressions are, 
the greater is their 
value. But eminent 
writers of course 
obtain much 
more, Lord 
Tenny s o n 
was once 
asked to pen 
a dozen 
poems of 
eight lines 
each, A 
guineas were 
offered for 
the stanzas 
— but, alas 
for birthday 

literature, the s rcat poet 
declined to write verse on order, 
even at the rate of ten guineas a 

The Bishops, too, have been 
approached on the subject, for 
verses of a religious tendency are more 
sought after than any others ; those of 
the late Frances Ridley Havergal are an 
instance. But the worthy bishops 
frankly admitted that the gift of poetry 
had not been allotted to them. The 

late Bishop of Worcester said : 4[ I have 
not poetical talent enough to write short 
poems.' * Dr. King, Bishop of Lincoln, 
said : l * I am sorry, but 1 ant not a poet." 
The Bishops of Manchester and Liverpool 
also honestly confessed to being no poets, 
whilst Dr. Temple, Bishop of London, said : 
li I am afraid I should make a great mistake 
if at my age I began to write short poems ; '' 
generously adding, w the Bishop of Exeter 
is a genuine poet. tJ 

Perhaps the most popular writer to-day 
is the lady whose initials — H. M. B. — have 
been appended to many millions of cards — 
Miss Helen Marion Burnside, of whom we 
give a portrait. Miss Burn side was born at 
Bromley Hall, Middlesex, in 1843, and at 
twelve years of age was seized with a severe 
attack of scarlet fever, the result of which 
was that she lost her hearing, A year 
later she commenced to write birthday 
poetry, and her prolific abilities will be 
understood, when we mention that she 
has written, on the average, two hundred 
birthday poems yearly ever since. Miss 
Burnside, too, is clever with her brush, and 
before she was nineteen years of age the 
Royal Academy accepted one of her pictures 
of fruit and flowers, and, later, a couple of 
portraits in crayons, 

We now turn to the designs 
for birthday cards — for though 
the motto is the principal 


by GoOglc 

nalTfoffi* 1 * 

24 6 


consideration, a pretty and fanciful sur- 
rounding is by no means, to be despised. 
Royal Academicians really do little in 
this branch of art, Though both Mr. 
Poynter and Mr. Hant have applied their 
brushes in this direction, and Sir John 
Millais has before now signified his willing- 
ness to accept a commission, it is presumed 
that R.A.'s prefer not to have their work 
confined to the narrow 
limits of a birthday 
card. An R.A. could 
ask a couple of hun- 
dred pounds for a de- 
sign t and get it. Mn 

Alma Tadema, when asked what he would 
charge to paint a pair of cards, replied— 
^"boo. Ordinary designs fetch from three 
to six guineas, though a distinctly original 
atid novel idea, be it only in the shape 
of a score of splashes from the brush, is 
worth from ten to fifteen guineas. 

Roth the Princess Louise and Princess 
Beatrice have done some really artistic 

m:w »TVLt 

3 y Google 

work, but their efforts have 
not been made public— save in 
the instance of the Princess 
Beatrice, whose Birthday Book 
is well known. Cards de- 
signed by Royalty liave passed 
only between members of the 
Royal Family- They are very 
simple and picturesque, flowers 
and effective landscapes with 
mountain scenery figuring pro- 
minently. It is indisputable 
that women excel in such 
designs. Theirs seems to be 
airy, graceful, and almost fa** 
ng touch ; there appears to be no 
—they seem only to play with 
>rush, though with delightful results. 
Amongst those ladies who are just 
now contributing excellent work might 
be mentioned the Baroness Marie Von 
Beckendorf, a German lady, whose 
flowers are delicate and fanciful to a 
degree. Miss Bertha Maguire is also 
gifted in the way of flower-painting, 
whilst Mi-s Annie Simpson paints many 
air exquisite blossom combined with 
charming landscape. 

The illustrations we give show a page 
nt what have now become ancient cards, 
and another of the very latest modern 

Original from 



It will at once be seen how the birthday 
card has grown out of the valentine. The 
two designs in the top corner of the first are 
essentially of a fourteenth of February 
tendency. Note the tiny god of love, that 
irrepressible mite of mischief! Cupid T playing 
with a garland of roses ; and there, too, 
is the heart, a trifle too symmetrical to 
be natural, with the customary arrow, 
almost as big as young Cupid himself, 
cruelly thrust through the very middle 
of it, The centre card is a French design, 
embossed round the edges with lace paper, 
with a silken cross and hand-painted pas- 
sion flowers laid on the card proper, which 
Lsof rice-paper. The remaining specimen is 
exceedingly quaint in the original, and ha* 

fassed through more than forty birthdays, 
t is almost funereal in appearance, as indeed 
were most of those made at that period ; 
indeed, many of the specimens of old-time 
birthday cards we have examined arc made 
up of weeping willows, young women 
shedding copious tears into huge urns at 
their feet, and what, to all appearance, is a 
mausoleum in the distance, And above all 
is written, ** Many happy returns of the 
day ! " 

The other set of cards, the modern ones, 
are all suggestive of the good wishes they 
carry with them* Many of them are of 
satin with real lace, delicately hand -painted 
marguerites, pansies, and apple- blossoms, 
whilst the elaborate fan, with its flowing 
ribbons, is edged with white swan's-down 
and gaily decorated with artificial corn and 
poppies. These are from designs kindly 
placed at our disposal by Messrs, Raphael 

Tuck & Sons. The printing of the cards is 
in itself an art. One of the largest print- 
ing establishments in the world devoted to 
this purpose is that of Messrs, Raphael 
Tuck & Sons, in Germany, whence comes 
the greater portion of those required for 
the English market. In the little village 
of Rendnitz, just outside Leipsic, from a 
thousand to twelve hundred people find 
employment. Here may be found a room 
containing no fewer than thirty-two of the 
largest presses, on which colour-lithography 
is being printed, Every machine does its own 
work, and the amount of labour required 
on a single birthday card is such that many « 
cards pass through eighteen or twenty 
different stages of printing, and in some 
exceptionally elaborate instances the num- 
ber has run up to thirty-seven. 

The cards are printed on great sheets of 
board, and from a thousand to fifteen 
hundred such sheets, so far as one colour- 
ing is concerned, constitute a good day T s 
work. These sheets measure 2Q inches by 
30 inches, and when the various colours are 
complete, they are cut up by machinery 
into some twenty or more pieces, according 
to the size of the card. Nor is the printing 
of birthday cards confined to cardboard. 
Effective work has been of late years pro- 
duced on satin, celluloid, and Japanese paper; 
and prices range from as low as twopence 
half- penny a gross to as much as seven and 
eight guineas for each card. The produc- 
tion of a birthday card, from the time it is 
designed to the time when it is laid before 
the public, generally occupies from eight 
to nine mouths. 

by Google 

Original from 

The Architect's Wife. 

From thk Spanish oy Antonio Tkueba. 

[ANTONto Tki/eHA, vvho is still alive, was born on Christmas Kve, 1821, al SopucrUi, in Spain. Asia 
the case of Burns, his father wus x peasant, and Antonio, as a child, played in the gutters with ihe other 
village urchins, or worked with his father in the fields. But nt fifteen, one of his relations, who kept a shop 
ul Madrid, made him hii assistant. By day he waited on the customers ; by night he studied in his room. 
Genius like that of Burns and of True ha ran not be kept down* Like Bums* the hoy begun to put forth songs, 
strong, sweet, and simple, which stirred the peoples hearts like music, and soon were hummed in every village 
street, His fame spread ; it reached the Court ; and (jueen Isabella bestowed upon him the lofty title of 
(Jueen's Po?t. He wrote also, and still writes, prose stories of all kinds, but mostly such as, like the following, 
belong to the romance of history, and are rather truth than fiction.] 


OWARDS the; middle of the 
fourteenth century, Toledo 
was laid under siege by Don 
Enrique de Trastamara ; but 
the city, faithful to the King 
surnamed " the Cruel," offered 

a brave and obstinate resistance. 

Often had the loyal and valiant 
Toledans crossed the magnificent 
bridge of San Martin — one of 
the structures of greatest beauty 
of that city of splendid erections 
— and had cast themselves on 
the encampment of Don Enrique, 
which was pitched on the Cigar- 
rales, causing sad havoc to the 
besieging army. 

In order to prevent the re- 
petition of these attacks, Don 
Enrique resolved upon destroy- 
ing the bridge. 

The Cigarrales, 
upon which the 
army was en* 
camped, were 
beautiful lauds 
enclosing luxu- 
riant orchards, 
pleasure gardens, 
and summer resi- 
dences. The fame 
of their beauty 
had inspired Tirso 
and many Spanish 
poets to sing its 

One night the 
luxuriant trees 
were cut down 
by the soldiers \ * 
of Don Enrique, 
and heaped upon <^^ 
the bridge. At 
day - dawn an 



immense fire raged on the bridge of San 
Martin , which assumed huge proportions, its 
sinister gleams lighting up the devastating 
hordes, the flowing current of the Tagus, the 
Palace of Don Rodrigo, and the little Arab 
Tower, The crackling of the strong and 
massive pillars, worked with all the ex- 
quisite skill of the artificers who 
created the marvels of the 
Alhambra, sounded like the 
piteous cry of Art oppressed by 

The Toledans, 
''awakened by this 
terrible spectacle, 
ran to save the 
beautiful erection 
from the utter 
ruin which men- 
aced it, but all 
their efforts were 
unavailing, A 
crash, which re- 
sounded through- 
out thecreeks and 
valleys watered 
by the Tagus, 
I told them that 
the bridge no 
" longer existed. 

Alas ! it was 
too true ! 

W hen the 
I rising sun gilded 
the cupolas of the 
Imperial City, the 
To led an maidens 
^ who came down 
to the river to fill 
their pitchers 
from the pure and 
crystal stream, 
returned sorrow- 
fully with empty 

by Google 

Original from 



pitchers on their heads ; the clear waters 
had become turbid and muddy, for the 
roaring waves were carrying down the still 
smoking ruins of the bridge. 

Popular indignation rose to its highest 
.pitch, and overflowed all limits; for the 
bridge of San Martin was the only path 
that led to the lovely Cigarrales. 

Joining their forces for one supreme 
effort, the Toledans made a furious on- 
slaught on the camp, and, after blood had 
flowed in torrents, compelled the army to 
take flight. 


Many years passed since the bridge of San 
Martin had been destroyed. 

Kings and Archbishops had projected 
schemes to replace it by another structure, 
of equal strength and beauty ; but the 
genius and perseverance of the most famous 
architects were unable to carry out their 
wishes. The rapid, powerful currents of the 
river destroyed and swept away the scaffold- 
ing and framework before the gigantic 
arches could be completed. 

Don Pedro Tenorio, Cardinal Arch- 
bishop of Toledo, to whom the city owes 
her glory almost as much as to her Kings, 
sent criers throughout the cities and towns 
of Spain, inviting architects, Christian and 
Moorish, to undertake the reconstruction 
of the" bridge of San Martin ; but with no 
result. The difficulties to be encountered 
were judged insurmountable. 

At length one day a man and a woman, 
complete strangers to the place, entered 
Toledo through the Cambron Gate. They 
carefully inspected the ruined bridge. Then 
they engaged a small house near the ruins, 
and proceeded to take up their quarters 

On the following day the man proceeded 
to the Archbishop's Palace. 

His Eminence was holding a conference 
of prelates, learned men, and distinguished 
knights, who were attracted by his piety 
and wisdom. 

Great was his joy when one of his 
attendants announced that an architect 
from distant lands solicited the honour of 
an audience. 

The Cardinal Archbishop hastened to 
receive the stranger. The first salutations 
over, his Eminence bade him be seated. 

" My Lord Archbishop/ 1 began the 
stranger, " my name, which is unknown to 
your Eminence, is Juan de Arevalo, and I 
am an architect by profession/' 

Digitized by Google 

44 Are you come in answer to the invita- 
tion I have issued calling upon skilful 
architects to come and rebuild the bridge 
of San Martin, which in former times 
afforded a passage between the city and the 
Cigarrales ? • T 

"It was indeed that invitation which 
brought me to Toledo.' } 

" Are you aware of the difficulties of its 
construction ? " 

" I am well aware of them. But I can 
surmount them." 

44 Where did you study architecture ? " 

" In Salamanca." 

" And what erection have you to show 
me as a proof of your skill ? " 

"None whatever, my lord." 

The Archbishop made a gesture of 
impatience and distrust which was noticed 
by the stranger. 

44 1 was a soldier in my youth," continued 
he, " but ill-health compelled me to leave 
the ardous profession of arms and return 
to Castille, the land of my birth, where I 
dedicated myself to the study of architec- 
ture, theoretical and practical." 

44 1 regret," replied the Archbishop, 
41 that you are unable to mention any work 
of skill that you have carried out." 

44 There are some erections on the Tormes 
and the Duero of which others have the 
credit, but which ought to honour him 
who now addresses you." 

44 1 do not understand you." 

44 1 was poor and obscure," rejoined Juan 
de Arevalo, "and I sought only to earn 
bread and shelter. Glory I left to others." 

44 1 deeply regret," replied Don Pedro 
Tenorio, " that you have no means of 
assuring us that we should not trust in you 
in vain." 

44 My lord, I can offer you one guarantee 
which I trust will satisfy your Eminence." 

44 What is that ? " 

44 My life ! " 

44 Explain yourself." 

44 When the framework of the centre 
arch shall be removed, I, the architect, will 
stand upon the keystone. Should the 
bridge fall, I shall perish with it." 

44 1 accept the guarantee." 

44 My lord, trust me, and I will carry out 
the work ! " 

The Archbishop pressed the hand of the 
architect, and Juan de Arevalo departed, 
his heart full of joyous expectation- His 
wife was anxiously awaiting his return. 
She was young and handsome still, despite 
the ravages of want and suffering, 



M Catherine ! my Catherine ! ** cried the 
architect, clasping his wife to hi* arms, 
41 amid the monuments that embellish 
Toledo there will be one to transmit to 
posterity the name of Juan do Arevalo ! " 


TlME passed. No longer could the Tole- 
dans say, on approach- 
ing the Tagus across the 
rugged cliffs and soli- 
tary places where in 
former times stood the 
Garden of Florinda, 
u Here once stood the 
bridge of San Martin/' 
Though the new bridge 
was still supported by 
solid scaffolding and 
massive frames, yet the 
centre arch already rose 
to view, and the whole 
was firmly planted on 
the ruins of the former. 

The Archbishop, Don 
Pedro Tenorio, and the 
Toledans were heaping 
gifts and praises on the 
fortunate architect 
whose skill had joined 
the central arch, despite 
the furious power of the 
surging currents, and 
who had completed the 
gigantic work with con- 
summate daring. 

It was the eve of the 
feast (if San Ildefonso, 
the patron saint of the 
city of Toledo. Juan 
de Arevalo respectfully 
informed the Cardinal 
Archbishop that nothing 
was now wanting to con- 
clude the work f but to 
remove the woodwork of the arches and the 
scaffolding. The joy of the Cardinal and 
of the people was great. The re in oval of 
the scaffolding and frames which supported 
the masonry was a work attended with 
considerable danger ; but the calmness and 
confidence of the architect who had pledged 
himself to stand on the keystone and await 
the consequences of success or lose his life, 
inspired all with perfect trust 

The solemn blessing and inauguration of 
the bridge of San Martin was fixed to take 
place on the day following, and the bells of 
all the churches of Toledo were joyously 

ringing in announcement of the grand 
event appointed for the morrow. The 
Toledans contemplated with rejoicing from 
the heights above the Tagus the lovely 
Cigarrales, which for many years had re- 
mained solitary and silent— indeed, almost 
abandoned— but which on the day following 
would be restored to life. 






ghtfall Juan 
Arevalo mounted the 
central arch to see that all 
was ready for the opening 
ceremony. He went hum- 
to himself as he inspected all the 
and preparations. But, suddenly, 
an expression of misgiving overspread his 
countenance. A thought had struck him 
—a thought that fro^e his blood. He de- 
scended from the bridge and hastened home, 
At the door his wife received him with 
a joyous smile and a merry word of con- 
gratulation. But on beholding his troubled 
face she turned deadly pale* 

11 Good heavens ! tf she cried, affrighted, 
li are you ill, dear Juan ? JT 

ik Xo, dear wife/* he replied, striving to 
master his emotion. 

Original from 




" Da not deceive nit; I your face tells me 
that something ails you ? t? 

11 Oh ! the evening is cold and the work 
lias been excessive.- T 

" Come in and sit down at the hearth 
and I will get the supper ready, and when 
you have had something to eat and are 
rested you will be at case again ! ,J 

" At ease ! ,T murmured Juan to himself, 
in agony of spirit, whilst his wife busied 
herself in the preparation of the supper, 
placing the table close to the hearth, upon 
which she threw a faggot. 

Juan made a supreme effort to overcome 
his sadness, but it was futile. His wife 
could not be deceived. 

" For the first time in our married life/' 
she said, "you hide a sorrow from me. 

"ARE ViHJ ILL, DBAS JUnfff* 1 " 

by Google 

Am [ no longer worthy of your love and 
confidence ? ? ' 

" Catherine ! " he exclaimed, " do not, for 
heaven's sake, grieve me further by doubt- 
ing my affection for you ! JT 

41 Where there is no trust," she rejoined 
in feeling tones, " there can be no true 

''Then respect, for your own good and 
mine, the secret I conceal from you/- 

11 Your secret is a sorrow, and I wish to 
know it and to lighten it." 

"To lighten it ? That is impossible ! " 
11 To such a love as mine," she urged, 
l( nothing is impossible.'' 

" Very well : then hear me. To- morrow 
my life and honour will be lost. The 
bridge must fall into the river, and I on the 
keystone shall perish with 
the fabric which, with so 
much anxiety and so many 
hopes, I have erected ! " 

"No, no!" cried Cath- 
erine, as she clasped her hus- 
band in her arms with 
loving tenderness, smother- 
ing in her own heart the 
anguish of the revelation, 

u Yes, dear wife ! When 
I was most confident of my 
triumph, I discovered that, 
owing to an error in my 
calculations, the bridge must 
fall to-morrow when the 
framework is removed. And 
w ith it perishes the architect 
who projected and directed 

"The bridge may sink 
into the waters, but not 
you, my loved one. On 
b<_ ; tided knees I will beseech 
the noble Cardinal to 
release you from your 
terrible engagement." 

"What you ask will be 
in vain. Even should the 
Cardinal accede to your en- 
treaty, I refuse life destitute 
of honour, 1 * 

''You shall have life and 
honour both, dear hus- 
band,' 1 replied Catherine, 


It was midnight, Juan, 
worn out with grief and 
anxious work 1 at last had 
fallen asleep ; a feverish 
Original from 

: ^^J&P 


sleep that partook more of the character 
of a nightmare than of Nature's sweet 

Meanwhile his wife had for some time made 
a show of sleeping. But she watched her 
husband anxiously, When she felt certain 
that he had at length succumbed to a deep 
sleep, she softly rose, and scarcely daring to 
breathe, crept out into the kitchen. She 
opened the window gently and looked out. 

The night was dark ; now and again 
vivid flashes of lightning lit up the sky, 
No sound was heard save the roar of the 
rushing currents of the Tagus, and the 
sighing of the wind as it swept in and Out 
among the scaffolding and complicated 
framework of 
the bridge. 

closed the win- 
dow. From the 
hearth she took 
one of the half- 
burnt faggots 
which still 
and throwing 
a cloak over 
her shoulders 
went out into 
the silent 
streets, her 
heart beating 

Where was 
she proceed- 
ing? Was she 
carrying that 
burning faggot 
as a torch to 
light her path 
in the dense 
darkness of a 
m o o n 1 e s s 
night ? It was 
indeed a dan- 
gerous track, 
covered as it 
was with 
broken boul- 
ders, and un- 
even ground. 

Yet she strove rather to conceal 
the lighted wood beneath her cloak, 

At last she reached the bridge. 
The wind still sighed and whistled, and 
the river continued to break its current 
against the pillars, as though irritated 

at meeting obstacles which it could no 
longer sweep away. 

Catherine approached the buttress of the 
bridge. An involuntary shudder of terror 
passed through her frame. Was it because 
she stood on the edge of that abyss of roar- 
ing waters ? Or was it because her hand, 
only accustomed hitherto to deeds of good- 
ness, was now brandishing the torch of 
destruction ? Or rather did she tremble 
because a tremendous peal of thunder at 
that moment resounded through the vault 
of heaven. 

Waving the torch to kindle it afresh, she 
applied it to the dry, resinous wood of the 
scaffolding. The wood quickly ignited, and 

the flame, 
fanned by the 
wind, ascended 
with fearful ra- 
pidity, spread- 
ing and involv- 
ing arches and 
framework and 
the whole 
structure of the 

T hen she 
quitted the 
scene swiftly. 
Aided by the 
glare of the con- 
flagration and 
the vivid flashes 
of lightning 
which lit up 
the sky, Cath- 
erine soon tra- 
versed the 
space which 
separated her 
from her home. 
She entered as 
noiselessly as 
she luid left it, 
and closed the 
door. Her hus- 
band still slept 
soundly, and 
had not missed 
her, Catherine 
again pretend- 
ed to be fast 
she had 
left her 

by ^C 


■THE 1 [,.\Mi: AMJL.NULU Willi MAkl LI. HAJ'IULTY- 

Original from 



A few moments later, a noise of many 
people running arose within the city, 
while from every belfry the bells rang 
forth the terrible alarm of fire. A tre- 
mendous crash succeeded, followed by 
a cry of anguish such as had been uttered 
years before, when the besieging army 
wrecked the former bridge. 

Juan awoke in terror; Catherine lay at his 
side, apparently sleeping calmly. He dressed 
himself in haste, and ran out to learn the 

protection of heaven, never wavered for an 
instant in the belief that the bridge had 
really been destroyed by lightning. 

The destruction of the bridge, however, 
only retarded Juan's triumph for a twelve- 
month. On the following year, on the 

same festival of San 
Ildefonso, his new 
bridge was solemnly 
thrown open by the 
Cardinal ; and the 
more crossed 
the Tagus to 
visit the lovely 
grounds of the 
which they 


reason of the uproar. To his secret joy he 
beheld the ruin of the burning bridge. 

The Cardinal Archbishop and the 
Toledans attributed the disaster to a flash 
of lightning which had struck the central 
arch, and had, moreover, ignited the whole 
structure, The general sorrow was intense. 
Great also was the public sympathy with 
the despair which the calamity must have 
caused the architect, who was on the eve 
of a great triumph. The inhabitants never 
knew whether it \vas fire from heaven, 
or an accident that had caused the con- 
flagration ; but Juan de Arevalo, who was 
good and pious> and firmly believed in the 

had been deprived of for so many years. 
On that auspicious day the Cardinal 
celebrated the event by giving a magnifi- 
cent banquet. At his right hand sat 
the architect and his noble wife ; and after 
a highly complimentary speech from the 
Cardinal, the whole company, amidst a 
tumult of applause, conducted Juan and 
Catherine to their home. 

Five hundred years have passed since 
then, but Juan's bridge still stands secure 
above the rushing waters of the Tagus. 
His second calculation had no error, The 
following illustration shows its appearance 
at ihe present day. 

- - - 


figinral from 

On the Decay of Humour in the House of Commons. 

By Hknkv W, Lucy ("Tohy, M.P."). 


1HERE is no doubt — it is not 
feigned by tired fancy — that 
the present House of Com- 
mons is a less entertaining 
assembly than it was wont to 
be + This is partly due to the 
lack of heaven-born comedians and largely 
to the curtailment of opportunity. The 
alteration of the rules of time under 
which the House sits for work was fatal 
to redundancy of humour The House of 
Commons is, after all, human, and it is an 
indisputable fact that mankind is more 
disposed to mirth after dinner than before, 
If the record be searched it will be found 
that ninety per cent, of the famous scenes 
that have established its reputation as a 
place of public entertainment have hap- 
pened after dinner. 

Under the new rules, which practically 
close debate at midnight, 
there is no H after dinner/' 
Mechanically, apparently in- 
voluntarily, the old arrange- 
ment of debate has shifted. 
Time was, within the memory 
of many sitting in the present 
House, when the climax of 
debate was found in its 
closing hours. The Leader 
of the House rose at eleven 
or half- past, and before a 
crowded and excited assembly 
cheered on his followers to 
an impending division, When 
he sat down, amid thunder^ 
ing cheers from his sup- 
porters, the Leader of the 
Opposition sprang to his 
feet, was hailed with a wild 
cheer from his friends, struck 
ringing blows across the table, and then, 
at one o'clock, or two o'clock t or whatever 
hour of the morning it might chance to be, 
members poured forth in tumultuous tide, 
parting at the division lobby. 

This was the period of the evening when 
chartered libertines of debate appeared on 
the scene and the fun grew fast and furious. 
It was Mr. O'DonnelPs pleasing habit to 
rise when the duel between the Leaders was 
concluded, and the crowded House roared 
for the division like caged lions whose feed- 


ing-time is overstepped. Pausing to re- 
capture his errant eyeglass, Mr + O'Donnell 
was accustomed to gaze round the seething 
mass of senators with admirably -feigned 
surprise at their impatience. When the 
uproar lulled he began his speech ; when it 
rose again he stopped ; but the speech was 
inevitable, and members presently recognis- 
ing the position, sat in sullen silence till he 
had said his say. 

This was comedy, not highly conceived 
it is true, but worked out with great skill, 
the enraged House chiefly contributing to 
its success. It was varied by the tragedy of 
the desperate English or Scotch member 
who, striving vainly night after night to 
catch the Speaker's eye, made a mad plunge 
at his last chance, and was literally howled 
down. It was a favourite hour for the late 
Mr. Riggar\s manifestations, and the lamen- 
ted and immortal Major 
O'Gorman never failed to 
put in an appearance at 
eleven o'clock, ready for any 
fun that might be going or 
might be made. 

N o w, when members 
slowly fill the House after 
dinner, dropping in between 
ten and eleven o'clock, they 
know there is no time fnr 
anything but business. If a 
division is imminent the 
debate must necessarily 
before midnight for 
question to be put. If 
to be continued, it 
adjourned sharp 
stroke of midnight, 
House rarely 
before eleven 



it is 

must be 

on the 

As the 

refills much 

o'clock, there 

is not opportunity after dinner for more 
than one set speech from a favourite 
orator. The consequence is that the plums 
of debate are in these days all pulled out 
before dinner ; and though at this period, 
the withers of the House being un wrung 
it is ready for a brisk fight, it is not in the 
mellow mood that invites and encourages 
the humorous, 

Whilst the opportunities of the Parlia- 
mentary Yor^k are thus peremptorily cur- 
tailed, he I^'Ai'^rdtther disadvantage in 

University of moigan 



view of the personality of the Leadership, 
It is impossible that a House led by Mr. 
W* H, Smith can be as prone to merriment 
as was one which found its head in Mr. 
Disraeli. When, in the Parliament of 1868, 
Mr + Gladstone was Premier and Mr. Dis- 
raeli Leader of the Opposi- 
tion, or in the succeeding 
Parliament, when these posi- 
tions were reversed, the 
House of Commons enjoyed 
a unique incentive to con- 
ditions of humour. Mr. 
Gladstone, with his gravity 
of mien, his sonorous sus- 
tained eloquence, and his 
seriousness about trifles, was 
a superb foil for the gay, but 
always mordant humour of 
Mr. Disraeli. 

From the outset of his 
career that great Parliament- 
arian enjoyed extraordinary 
advantage by reason of the 
accident of the personality 
against which, first and last, 
he was pitted* Having had Sir Robert Peel 
to gird against through the space of a dozen 
years, it was too much to hope that for 
fully a quarter of a century he should have 
enjoyed the crowning mercy of being 
opposed to and contrasted with Mr. Glad- 
stone. Yet such was his good fortune. 
How little he did with Lord Hartington in 
the interregnum of 1874-7, and how little 
mark he made against Lord Granville 
when he met him in the Lords, brings into 
strong light the advantage fortune had 
secured tor him through the longer period 
of his life. 

Whilst the tone and habit of the House 

1 HAL'XTFft. 

of Commons in matters of humour are to 
a considerable extent conformable with 
the idosyncrasy of its leaders, it will some- 
times, in despair of prevailing dulness, 
assume a joke if it has it not. There is 
nothing more delightful in the happiest 
efforts of Mr, Disraeli than 
the peculiar relations which 
subsist between the present 
House of Commons and Mr, 
W. H. Smith, On one side 
we have a gf>od, amiable, 
somewhat pedagogic gentle- 
man, unexpectedly thrust 
into the seat haunted by the 
shades of Palmer st on and 
Disraeli. On the other side 
is the House of Commons, a 
little doubtful of the result, 
but personally liking the new 
Leader, and constitutionally 
prone to recognise authority. 
At first Mr. Smith was 
voted unbearably dull His 
eloquence.- hesitating manner, his pain- 

ful self-consciousness, his 
moral reflections, and his all-pervading 
sense of " duty to his Oueen and country " 
bored the House, In the first few months 
of his succession to Lord Randolph 
Churchill, there was seen the unwonted 
spectacle of members getting up and leav- 
ing the House when the Leader presented 
himself at the table. But Mr. Smith 
plodded on, patiently, pathetically, trolling 
out his moral reflections, and tremul^ 
ously preserving what with full conscious- 
ness of the contradiction of words may 
be described as an air of submissive 
authority. Members began to perceive, or 
perhaps to invent, the fun of the thing, 
Mr. Smith realised their boyhood f s idea of 
Mr. Barlow conversing with his pupils ; 
only he was always benevolent, and though 
he frequently shook his ferule with 
threatening gesture, Sandford and Merton 
felt that the palms of their hands were 

Mr. Smith is, however, peculiarly a House 
of Commons' possession, No one out of the 
House can quite understand how precious 
he is, how inimitable, how indescribable. 
To the outsider he makes poor amends for 
the Irish Members of the Parliament of 
1S74, or the Fourth Party that played so 
prominent a rd!e in the House that met in 
1880. The Fourth Party, like the Major, 
Mr. Biggar, Mr + Delahunty, Mr. McCarthy 

""UWBSIMIF tadr 4 M *> or nf 



Dublin — who warned Mr. Forstcr what 
would happen in the event of an (absolutely 
uncontemplated) attempt on the part of the 
Chief Secretary to drag his lordship's 
spouse out of her bed in the dead of the 
night — are with us no more. Gone too, 


faded into dreamland, arc the characters 
who made up the Fourth Party. Happily 
three of them remain with us^ though in 
strangely altered circumstances. Two sit 
on the Treasury Bench, and one watches it 
from behind with friendly concern that adds 
a new terror to Ministerial office. 

Each in his way brilliantly sustains the 
reputation of the famous school in which 
he was trained. There is in the House 
only one possibly superior combination of 
debaters to Lord Randolph Churchill, 
Mr. Arthur Balfour, and Sir John Gorst. 
In the quality of humour especially under 
consideration, this combination carries away 
the palm from the other. I think it is 
untrue to say, as is commonly accepted, 
that Mr. Gladstone is devoid of the sense 
of humour, though it must be admitted 
that it does not predominate in his House 
of Commons speeches. Mr. Chamberlain 
is even more conspicuously lacking in this 
commanding quality. On the other hand, 
Mr, Balfour in his House of Commons 
addresses docs not shine as a humorist. 
He is in his public character (in strange 
contrast, by the way, with his personal 
habitude) not sufficiently genial. But he 
has a pretty wit of the sarcastic t poisoned - 
dagger style, which, differing from the effects 
of humour, makes everybody laugh, save 
the object of the attack. He writhes. 

Mr* Balfour's Parliamentary style, doubt- 
less unconscious I v. perhaps for reasons con- 
nected with heredity, is shaped upon his 
distinguished uncle's. He lacks the grave 
ponderosity which gives the finishing touch 
to Lord Salisbury's occasional trifling with 
public questions, But he is still young, 
and his style inchoate. 

The Minister who answers for India 
in the House of Commons cannot fairly 
be expected to contribute to the hilarity 
of its proceedings. Yet occasionally Sir 
John Gorst, more particularly at question- 
time, standing at the table with almost 
funereal aspect, drops a parenthetical 
remark that convulses the House with 
laughter. Lord Randolph Churchill, 
since he has taken to racing, has assumed 
a gravity of manner which militates 
against repetition of his old successes in 
setting the table in a roar. 

But the gloom under which he has 
rnvdoped liiinsdl i-Jikc that whieh just 
now obscures the sunlight of laughter 
over the House generally, only a tem- 
porary condition. The present House 
has accidentally run into a groove of 
gloom, which will probably outlast its 
existence. But there is no reason to 
believe that the decay of humour noted 
will be permanent. There is no assembly 
in the world so pathetically eager to be 
amused as is the House of Commons, It 
sits and listens entranced to bursts of 
sustained argument. It follows with keen 
intellectual delight the course of subtle 



argument. It burns with fierce indignation 
at a story of wrongs doing. It flashes with 
generous' impulse at an invitation to do 
right, But it likes, above all things, to be 
made to laugh. In its despair of worthier 
efforts, almost anything will do. An agitated 
orator rounding off his peroration by sitting 
down on his hat ; a glass of water upset ; 
or, primest joke of all, an impassioned 
oratorieal fist brought down with resonant 
thud on the hat of a listener sitting atten- 
tive on the bench below — these are trivial, 
familiar accidents that never fail to bring 
down the House. 

So persistently eager is the House to be 
amused that, failing the gift of beneficent 
nature, it will, as in the case of Mr. \V\ H. 
Smith, invent a humorous aspect of a man, 
and laugh at its own creation. There arc- 
many cases where a man ha? commenced 
his Parliamentary career amidst evidences 
not only of personal disfavour, but of almost 
malignant animosity, and has finished by 
finding his interposition in debate hailed by 
hilarious cheering. Such a case was that 
of the late Mr, Biggar, 
who for fully ten years of 
his Parliamentary career 
was an object of unbridled 
execration. He lived to 
find himself almost a 
prime favourite in the 
House, a man who, when 
he had not got further in 
his speech than to ejacu- 
late " Mr. Speaker, sir,' 1 
found himself the focus of 
a circle of beaming faces, 


keenly anticipatory of fun. Mr. Biggar in 
the sessions of 1886-q was the same mem- 
ber for Cavan who, in the Parliament of 
1874, was a constant mark of contumely, 
and even of personal hatred. The House 
had grown used to him, 
and had gradually built 
up round his name and 
personality an ideal of 
eccentric humour. But 
the creative power was 
with the audience — ^i 
priceless quality that re- 
mains with it even in 
these dull times, and 
though temporarily sub- 
dued, will presently have 
its day again. 


by Google 

Original from 

The Snowstorm. 

From the Russian of Alexander Pushkin, 

Some, too, went to have 
daughter, Maria ; a tall 

O WARDS the end of 1811, 
at a memorable period for 
Russians, lived on his own 
domain of Nenaradova the 
kind-hearted Gavril R, He 
was celebrated in the whole 

district for his hospitality and his genial 

character. Neighbours constantly visited 

him to have something to eat and drink, 

and to play at five-copeck boston with his 

wife, Praskovia, 

a look at their 

pale girl of 

seventeen. She 

was an heiress, 

and they desired 

her either for 

themselves or 

for their sons. 
Maria had 

been brought up 

on French 

novels, and 


was in love. 

The object of 

heT affection 

was a poor en- 
sign in the army, 

who was now at 

home in his 

small village on 

leave of absence. 

As a matter of 

course, the 

young man re- 

ciproca ted 

Maria's passion. 

But the parents 

of his beloved, 

noticing their 

mutual attach- 
ment, forbade 

their daughter 

even to think of 

him, while they 

received him 

worse than an 

ex -assize judge. 
Our lovers 


and met alone 

daily in the pine 

wood or by the 


by Google 

old roadway chapel There they vowed 
everlasting love, inveighed against fate, 
and exchanged various suggestions, Writ- 
ing and talking in this way, they quite 
naturally reached the following conclu- 
sion : — 

If we cannot exist apart from each other, 
and if the tyranny of hard-hearted parents 
throws obstacles in the way of our hap- 
piness, then can we not manage without 
them ? 

Of course, this happy idea originated 

in the mind of 
V the young man ; 

but it pleased 
immensely the 
romantic im- 
agination of 

Winter set in, 
and put a stop 
to their meet- 
ings- But their 
became all the 
more active. 
Vladimir begged 
Maria in every 
letter to give 
herself up to 
him that they 
might get mar- 
ried secretly, 
hide for a while, 
and then throw 
themselvet at 
the feet of their 
parents, who 
would of course 
in the end be 
touched by their 
heroic constancy 
and say to them, 
"Children, come 
to our arms ! " 

Maria hesi- 
tated a long 
while, and out 
of many dif- 
ferent plans pro- 
posed, that of 
flight was for a 
time rejected. 
At last, how- 
Original from 


2 59 


ever, she consented. On the appointed 
day she was to decline supper, and retire 
to her room under the plea of a headache- 
She and her maid, who was in the secret s 
were then to go out into the garden by 
the back stairs, and beyond the garden they 
would find a sledge ready for them, would 
get into it and drive a distance of five miles 
from Nenaradova, to the village of Jadrino, 
straight to the church, where 
Vladimir would be waiting 
for them. 

On the eve of the decisive 
day, Maria did not 
sleep all night ; 
she was packing 
and tying up 
linen and dresses. 
She wrote, more- 
over, a long letter 
to a friend of hers, 
a sentimental 
young lady ; and 
another to her 
parents* Of the 
latter, she took 
leave In the most 
touching terms. 
She excused the 
step she' was tak- 
ing by reason of 
the unconquer- 
able power of 
love, and wound 
up by declaring 
that "she should 
consider it the 
happiest moment 
of her life when 
she was allowed 
to throw herself 
at the feet of her 
dearest parents. 
Sealing both let- 
ters with a Toula 
seal, on which 
were engraven 

two flaming hearts with an appropriate 
inscription, she at last threw herself upon 
her bed before daybreak, and dosed off, 
though even then she was awakened 
from one moment to another by terrible 
thoughts. First it seemed to her that at 
the moment of entering the sledge in 
order to go and get married, her father 
stopped her, and with cruel rapidity dragged 
her over the snow, and threw her into 
a dark bottomless cellar— down which 
*he fell headlong with an indescribable 

Digitized by t^OOQ IC 




sinking of the heart. Then she 
Vladimir, lying on the grass, pale 
bleeding ; with his dying breath he im- 
plored her to make haste and marry him, 
Other hideous and senseless visions floated 
before her one after another. Finally, she 
rose paler than usual, and with a real head- 

Both her father and her mother remarked 
her indisposition, Their 
tendeT anxiety and constant 
inquiries, " What is the 
matter with you, Masha — 
are you ill ?" cut 
her to the heart. 
She tried to paeify 
them and to ap- 
pear cheerful ; 
but she could not, 
Evening set in. 
The idea that she 
was passing the 
day for the last 
time in the midst 
of her family 
oppressed her. In 
her secret heart 
she took leave of 
e v e r y b o d y , of 
everything which 
surrounded her, 

Supper was 
served ; her heart 
beat violently. In 
a trembling voice 
she declared that 
she did not want 
anv supper, and 
wished her father 
and mother good- 
night* They 
kissed her, and as 
usual blessed her ; 
and she nearly 

Reaching her 
own room, she 
threw herself into an easy chair and burst 
into tears- Her maid begged her to be 
calm and take courage. Everything was 
ready, In half an hour Masha would 
leave for ever her parents' house, her own 
room, her peaceful life as a young girl. 

Chit of doors the snow was falling, the 
wind howling. The shutters rattled and 
shook. In everything she seemed to recog- 
nise omens and threats. 

Soon the whole home was quiet and 
asleep, Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, 





put on a warm cloak, and with a box in her 
hand, passed out on to the back staircase. 
The maid carried two bundle* after her* 
They descended into the garden. The 
snowstorm raged ; a strong wind blew 
against them, as if trying to stop the young 
culprit. With difficulty they reached the 
end of the garden. In the road a sledge 
awaited them. 

The horses, from cold, would not stand 
still* Vladimir's coachman was walking to 
and fro in front of them, trying to quiet 
them* He helped the young lady and her 
maid to their seats, and packing away the 
bundles and the dressing-case, took up the 
reins, and the horses flew forward into the 
darkness of the night, 

Having entrusted the young lady to the 
care of fate and of Tereshka the coachman t 
let us return to the young lover, 

Vladimir had spent the whole day in 
driving. In the morning he had called on 
the Jadrino priest, and, with difficulty, 
came to terms with him* Then he went 
to seek for witnesses from amongst the 
neighbouring gentry* The first on whom 

his larks when he was in the Hussars. He 
persuaded Vladimir to stop to dinner with 
him, assuring him that there would be no 
difficulty in getting the other two witnesses. 
Indeed* immediately after dinner in came 
the surveyor Schmidt, with a moustache 
and spurs, and the son of a captain -magis- 
trate, a boy of sixteen, who had recently 
entered the Uhlans* They not only ac- 
cepted Vladimir's proposal, but even swore 
that they were ready to sacrifice their lives 
for him. Vladimir embraced them with 
delight* and drove off to get everything 

It had long been dark- Vladimir de- 
spatched his trustworthy Tereshka to 
Nenaradova with his two-horsed sledge* 
and with appropriate inst ructions for the 
occasion* For himself he ordered the small 
sledge with one horse, and started alone 
without a coachman for Jadrino, where 
Maria ought to arrive in a couple of hours. 
He knew the road> and the drive would 
only occupy twenty minutes. 

But Vladimir had scarcely passed from 
the enclosure into the open field when the 
wind rose^ and soon there was a driving 

'all landmarks r>]>AJ'i*E yrhu 

he called was a former cornet of horse, 
Dravin by name, a man in his forties, w T ho 
consented at once. The adventure* he de- 
clared, reminded him of old times and of 




snowstorm so heavy 
and so severe that he 
could not see. In a 
moment the road was 
covered with snow. 
All landmarks disappeared in the murky 
yellow darkness* through which fell white 
flakes of snow. Sky and earth became 
merged into one. Vladimir* in the midat 

Original from 



of the field , tried in vain to get to the road. 
The horse walked on at random, and every 
moment stepped either into deep snow or 
into a rut, so that the sledge was constantly 
upsetting. Vladimir tried at least not to 
lose the right direction ; but it seemed to 
him that more than half an hour had 
passed, and he had not yet reached the 
Jadrino wood- Another ten minutes passed, 
and still the wood was invisible* Vladimir 
drove across fields intersected by deep 
ditches. The snowstorm did not abate, 
and the sky did not clear. The horse was 
getting tired and the perspiration rolled 
from him like hail, in spite of the fact that 
every moment his legs were disappearing 
in the snow. 

At last Vladimir found that he was 
going in the wrong direction, He stopped ; 
began to reflect, recollect, and consider ; 
till at last he became convinced that he 
ought to have turned to the right He 
did so ncw + His horse could scarcely drag 
along. But he had been more than an 
hour on the road, and Jadrino 
could not now be far. He 
drove and drove, but there 
was no getting out of the 
field. Still snow-drifts and 
ditches, Every moment 
the sledge was upset, 
and every moment 
Vladimir had to raise 
it up. 

Time was slipping 
by ; and Vladimir grew 
seriously anxious. At 
last in the distance some 
dark object could be 

Vladimir turned in 
its direction, and as he 
drevv near found it was 
a wood. 

"Thank Heaven, 1 ' he 
thought, " I am now 
near the end," 

He drove by the side 
of the wood, hoping to 
come at once upon the 
familiar road, or, if not, 
to pass round the wood. 
Jadrino was situated 
immediately behind it. 

He soon found the 
road t and passed into 
the darkness of the 
wood, now stripped by / 
the winter. The wind ^ ■ 

could not rage here ; the road was smooth, 
the horse picked up courage, and Vladimir 
w r as comforted. 

He drove and drove, but still Jadrino was 
not to be seen ; there was no end to the 
wood. Then, to his horror, he discovered 
that he had got into a strange wood ! He 
was in despair. He whipped his horse, and 
the poor animal started off at a trot. But 
it soon got tired, and in a quarter of an 
hour, in spite of all poor Vladimir's efforts, 
could only crawl. 

Gradually the trees became thinner, and 
Vladimir drove out of the wood ; but 
Jadrino was not to be seen, It must have 
been about midnight. Tears gushed from 
the young man's eyes. He drove on at 
random ; and now the weather abated, the 
clouds dispersed, and before him was a wide 
stretch of plain covered with a white billowy 
carpet. The night was comparatively clear, 


and he could see a 
small village a short 
distance off, which 
consisted of four or 
five cottages. 
Vladimir drove to- 
wards it. At the 
first door he jumped 
out of the sledge, 
ran up to the win- 
dow, and tapped. 

After a few 
minutes a wooden 
shutter was raised, 
and an old man 
stuck out his grey 
rrfWhat do you 




44 How far is Jadrino ? " 

44 How far is Jadrino ? " 

44 Yes, yes ! Is it far ? " 

44 Not far ; about ten miles. " 

At this answer Vladimir clutched hold of 
his hair, and stood motionless, like a man 
condemned to death. 

44 Where do you come from ? " added the 
man. Vladimir had not the courage to 

* 4 My man/' he said, 44 can you procure 
me horses to Jadrino ? " 

44 We have no horses," answered the 

44 Could I find a guide ? I will pay him 
any sum he likes." 

44 Stop ! " said the old man, dropping the 
shutter ; 4t I will send my son out to you ; 
he will conduct you." 

Vladimir waited. Scarcely a minute had 
passed when he again knocked. The shutter 
was lifted, and a beard was seen. 

44 What do you want ? " 

4t What about your son ? " 

44 He'll come out directly : he is putting 
on his boots. Are you cold ? Come in 
and warm yourself." 

44 Thanks ; sdnd out your son quickly." 

The gate creaked ; a youth came out 
with a cudgel, and walked on in front, at 
one time pointing out the road, at another 
looking for it in a mass of drifted snow. 

44 What o'clock is it ? " Vladimir asked 

44 It will soon be daylight/' replied the 
young peasant. Vladimir spoke not another 

The cocks were crowing, and it was light 
when they reached Jadrino. The church 
was closed. Vladimir paid the guide, and 
drove into the yard of the priest's house. 
In the yard his two-horsed sledge was not 
to be seen. What news awaited him ! 

But let us return to the kind proprietors 
of Nenaradova, and see what is going on 


The old people awoke, and went into the 
sitting-room, Gavril in a night-cap and 
flannel jacket, Praskovia in a wadded 
dressing gown. The samovar was brought 
in, and Gavril sent the little maid to ask 
Maria how she was and how she had slept. 
The little maid returned, saying that her 
young lady had slept badly, but that she 
was better now, and that she would come 
into the sitting-room in a moment. And 
indeed the door opened and Maria came in 

and wished her papa and mamma good, 

44 How is your head-ache, Masha ? " 
(familiar for Mary) inquired Gavril. 

44 Better, papa," answered Masha. 

44 The fumes from the stoves must have 
given you your headache," remarked Pras- 

44 Perhaps so, mamma," replied Masha. 

The day passed well enough, but in the 
night Masha was taken ill. A doctor was 
sent for from town. He came towards 
evening and found the patient delirious. 
Soon sne was in a severe fever, and in a 
fortnight the poor patient was on the brink 
of the grave. 

No member of the family knew anything 
of the flight from home. The letters written 
by Masha the evening before had been 
burnt ; and the maid, fearing the wrath of 
the master and mistress, had not breathed a 
word. The priest, the ex-cornet, the big 
moustached surveyor, and the little lancet- 
were equally discreet, and with good reason. 
Tereshka, the coachman, never said too 
much, not even in his drink. Thus the 
secret was kept better than it might have 
been by half a dozen conspirators. 

But Maria herself, in the course of her 
long fever let out her secret. Nevertheless, 
her words were so disconnected that her 
mother, who never left her bedside, could 
only make out from them that her daughter 
was desperately in love with Vladimir, and 
that probably love was the cause of her 
illness. She consulted her husband and 
some of her neighbours, and at last it was 
decided unanimously that the fate of Maria 
ought not to be interfered with, that a 
woman must not ride away from the man 
she is destined to marry, that poverty is no 
crime, that a woman has to live not with 
money but with a man, and so on. Moral 
proverbs are wonderfully useful on such 
occasions, when we can invent little or 
nothing in our own justification. 

Meanwhile the young lady began to re- 
cover. Vladimir had not been seen for a 
long time in the house of Gavril, so 
frightened had he been by his previous 
reception. It was now resolved to send 
and announce to him the good news 
which he could scarcely expect : the consent 
of her parents to his marriage with Maria. 

But what was the astonishment of the 
proprietors of Nenaradova when, in answer 
to their invitation they received an insane 
reply. Vladimir informed them he could 
never set foot rn their house, and begged 

unTversity ofmichigan' ** 



them to forget an unhappy man whose only 
hope now was in death. A few day? after- 
wards they heard that Vladimir had left the 
place and joined the army, 

A long time passed before they 
ventured to tell Masha, who was now re- 
covering, She never mentioned Vladimir, 
Some months later, however, finding hi= 
name in the list of those who had dis- 
tinguished themselves and been severely 
wounded at Borodino, she fainted, and it 
was feared that the fever might return. 
But, Heaven be thanked ! the fainting fit 
had no bad results. 

Maria experienced yet another sorrow, 
Her father died, leaving her the heiress of 
all his property. But the inheritance 
could not console her. She shared sincerely 
the affliction uf her mother, and vowed die 
would never leave her. 

Suitors clustered round the 
charming heiress ; but *he gave 
no one the slightest hope. Her 
mother sometimes tried to per- 
suade her to choose a companion 
in life ; but Maria shook 
her head, and grew 

Vladimir no longer 
existed. He had died 
at Moscow on the eve 
of the arrival of the 
French. His memory 
was held sacred by 
Maria, and she trea- 
sured up everything 
that would remind her 
of him : books he had 
read, drawings which 
he had made ; *ongs 
he had sung, and the 
pieces of poetry which 
he had copied out for 

The neighbours, 
hearing all this, won- 
dered at her fidelity, 
and awaited with 
curiosity the arrival of 
the hero who must in 
I lie end triumph over 
tlit; melancholy con- 
stancy of this virgin Artemis, 

Meanwhile, the war had been 
brought to a glorious conclusion, 
and our armies were returning 
from abroad. The people ran to 
meet them. The music played ' 

the regimental bands consisted of war songs, 
11 Vive Henri-OuatrtV 1 Tirolese waltzes and 
airs from Joconde. Nourished on the atmo- 
sphere of winter, officers who had started 
on the campaign mere striplings, returned 
grown men, and covered with decorations. 
The soldiers conversed gaily among them- 
selves, mingling German and French words 
every moment in their speech. A time 
never to be forgotten — a time of glory 
and delight ! How quickly beat the Rus- 
sian heart at the words, " Native land ! " 
How sweet the tears of meeting ! With 
what unanimity did we combine feelings of 
national pride with love for the Tsar ! And 
for him, what a moment ! 

The women — our Russian women — were 
splendid then- Their usual coldness dis- 
appeared. Their delight was really intoxi- 
cating when, meeting the conquerors, they 


I by 

E uridrnal from 





cried, " Hurrah ! " And they threw up 
their caps in the air. 

Who of the officers of that period does 
not own that to the Russian women he was 
indebted for his best and most valued re- 
ward ? During this brilliant period Maria 
was living with her mother in retirement, 
and neither of them saw how, in both the 
capitals, the returning troops were wel- 
comed. But in the districts and villages 
the general enthusiasm was, perhaps, even 

In these places the appearance of an 
officer became for him a veritable triumph. 
The accepted lover in plain clothes fared 
badly by nis side. 

We have already said that, in spite of 
her coldness, Maria was still, as before, sur- 
rounded by suitors. But all had to fall in 
the rear when there arrived at his castle 
the wounded young captain of Hussars 
— Bourmin by name — with the order of 
St. George in his button-hole, and an inter- 
esting pallor on his face. He was about 
twenty-six. He had come home on leave 
to his estates, which were close to Maria's 
villa. Maria paid him such attention as 
none of the others received. In his presence 
her habitual gloom disappeared. It could 
not be said that she flirted with him. But 
a poet, observing her behaviour, might 
have asked, " S' amor non e, che dunque ? " 

Bourmin was really a very agreeable 
young man. He possessed just the kind of 
sense that pleased women : a sense of what 
is suitable and becoming. He had no 
affectation, and was carelessly satirical. His 
manner towards Maria was simple and easy. 
He seemed to be of a quiet and modest 
disposition ; but rumour said that he had 
at one time been terribly wild. This, how- 
ever, did not harm him in the opinion of 
Maria, who (like all other young ladies) 
excused, with pleasure, vagaries which were 
the result of impulsiveness and daring. 

But above all — more than his love- 
making, more than his pleasant talk, more 
than his interesting pallor, more even than 
his bandaged arm — the silence of the young 
Hussar excited her curiosity and her imagi- 
nation. She could not help confessing to 
herself thai he pleased her very much. 
Probably he too, with his acuteness and his 
experience, had seen that he interested her. 
How was it, then, that up to this moment 
she had not seen him at her feet ; had not 
received from him any declaration what- 
ever? And wherefore did she not en- 
courage him with more attention, and, 

according to circumstances, even with ten- 
derness ? Had she a secret of her own 
which would account for her behaviour ? 

At last, Bourmin fell into such deep 
meditation, and his black eyes rested with 
such fire upon Maria, that the decisive 
moment seemed very near. The neigh- 
bours spoke of the marriage as an accom- 
plished fact, and kind Praskovia rejoiced 
that her daughter had at last found for 
herself a worthy mate. 

The lady was sitting alone once in the 
drawing-room, laying out grande-patience, 
when Bourmin entered the room, and at 
once inquired for Maria. 

" She is in the garden," replied the old 
lady : " go to her, and I will wait for you 
here." Bourmin went, and the old fady 
made the sign of the cross and thought, 
44 Perhaps the affair will be settled to-day ! " 

Bourmin found Maria in the ivy-bower 
beside the pond, with a book in her hands, 
and wearing a white dress — a veritable 
heroine of romance. After the first in- 
quiries, Maria purposely let the conversa- 
tion drop ; increasing by these means the 
mutual embarrassment, from which it was 
only possible to escape by means of a 
sudden and positive declaration. 

It happened thus. Bourmin, feeling the 
awkwardness of his position, informed Maria 
that he had long sought an opportunity 
of opening his heart to her, and that he 
begged for a moment's attention. Maria 
closed the book and lowered her eyes, as a 
sign that she was listening. 

44 I love you," said Bourmin, u I love you 
passionately ! " Maria blushed, and bent 
her head still lower. 

* 4 1 have behaved imprudently, yielding 
as I have done to the seductive pleasure of 
seeing and hearing you daily." Maria 
recollected the first letter of St. Preux in 
"La Nouvelle Heloise." " It is too late 
now to resist my fate. The remembrance 
of you, your dear incomparable image, 
must from to-day be at once the torment 
and the consolation of my existence. I 
have now a grave duty to perform, a 
terrible secret to disclose, which will place 
between us an insurmountable barrier." 

" It has always existed ! " interrupted 
Maria ; " I could never have been your 

44 1 know," he replied quickly ; "I know- 
that you once loved. But death and three 
years of mourning may have worked some 
change. Dear, kind Maria, do not try 
to d^tyfg^y #p fl|£ H |eK N consolation ; 



the idea that you might have consented 

to make me happy if , Don't speak, 

for God's *ake don't speak — you torture 
me. Yes, I know, I feel that you could 
have been mine, but — I am the most miser- 
able of beings — I am already married ! tf 
Maria looked at him in astonishment. 

my regiment was stationed. Arriving one 
evening late at a station, 1 ordered the 
horses to be got ready quickly, when sud- 
denly a fearful snowstorm broke out. Both 
station-master and drivers advised me to 
wait till it was over* I listened to their 
advice, but an unaccountable restlessness 

n i 

'[N TIEIl LV\-Hm\\|,N. 

"I am married, 1 ' continued Bounnin ; ''I 
have been married more than three years, 
and do not know who my wife in, or where 
she is, or whether I shall ever see her 
again/ 1 

14 What are you saying? 1 ' exclaimed 
Maria ; u how strange ! Pray continue/ 1 

4i In the beginning of iSi'z,' 1 said Bour- 
min, u I was hurrying on to Wilna, where 

took possession of me, just as though some- 
one was pushing me on. Meanwhile, the 
snowstorm did not abate. I could bear it 
no longer, and again ordered the horses, 
and started in the midst of the storm. The 
driver took it into his head to drive along 
the river, which would shorten the dis- 
tance b)MtiKB©sliSftle§. The banks were 
cov^t^'^ft^^^Wt^ltiAM^ driver missed 



the turning which would have brought us 
out on to the road T and we turned up in an 
unknown place. The storm never ceased. 
I could discern a light, and told the driver 
to make for it. We entered a village, and 
found that the light proceeded from a 

one to me. l The bride has fainted ; the 
priest does nat know what to do ; we were 
on the point of going back. Make haste 
and get out ! ' 

bl 1 got out of the >ledge in silence, and 
stepped into the churchy which was dimly 

h ii is sur Hk ! 

wooden church. The church was open. 
Outrides the railings stood ^veral sledges, 
and people passing in and out through the 

" * Here ! here ! ' cried several voices, I 
told the coachman to drive up. 

14 b Where have you dawdled ; ' .'■aid some* 

lighted with two or 

three tapers, A girl 

was sitting in a dark 

corner on a bench ; another 

girl was rubbing her temples, 

'Thank God/ said the latter, 

you have come at last ! You 

have nearly been the death of the young 


lb The old pi "iest approached me, *a) mg t 
14 * Shall I begin?' 

41 b Refill — begin, reverend father/ I re- 
plied, absently, 

11 The young lady was raised up, I 
thought her rather pretty. Oh, wild, 
unpardonable frivolity ! I placed myself 
by her side at the altar. The priest 
hurried on. 

•'Three men and the maid supported 




th* bride, and occupied themselves with 
her alone* We were married ! 

li ' Kiss your wife, 1 said the priest, 

" My wife turned her pale face towards 
me. I was going to kiss her, when she 
exclaimed, ' Oh ! it is not he — not he ! ' 
and fell back insensible. 

41 The witnesses stared at me* I turned 
round and left the church without any 
attempt being made to stop me, threw 
myself into the sledge, and cried, 4 Away ! ' f 

11 What ! " exclaimed Maria, " And you 
don't know what became of your unhappy 
wife ? " 

" I do not/ 1 replied Ruurmin ; li neither 
do I kuuw the name of vthe village where I 

wa.s married t nor that of the station from 
which I started. At that time I thought 
so little of my wicked joke that, on driving 
away from the church, I fell asleep,, and 
never woke till early the next morning, after 
reaching the third station. The servant 
who was with me died during the cam- 
paign j so that I have now no hope of ever 
discovering the unhappy woman on whom 
I played such a cruel trick, and who is now 
so cruelly avenged." 

a Great heavens ! " cried Maria, seizing 
hi* hand. 1( Then it was you, and you do 
not recognise me ? ,J 

Bourmin turned pale— and threw himself 
at her feet. 

by Google 

Original from 

A Night at Tne Grand Chartreuse. 

Bv J. E. Muddock. 

I( La vie d'un bcm Chartreu* doit tire 
Une oraison prescjue continuelle." 

Gntrance Court 

to La Grande Cfiartreuse 

HE above is the legend that is 
painted on the door of every 
cell occupied by a monk of 
the silent Order of Carthu- 
sians. To pray always for 
those who never pray ; to 
pray for those who have done you wrong ; 
to pray for those who sin every hour of 
their lives ; to pray for all sort- and con- 
ditions of men, no nutter what their 
colour, no matter what their creed ; to pray 
that God will remove doubt and scepticism 
from the world y and open all human eyes 
to the way of faith and salvation, Sui-h is 
the chief duty of the Chartreux. That the 
lives of these men is a continual prayer 
would seem to be an undoubted fact ; but 
they are more than that — they arc lives 
of silence, that must not be broken, 
save under exceptional circumstances. 
Time has been when they were surrounded 
by their families, their friends, when 

perhaps they had ambitions like other men, 
hopes like other men, and, it may be, have 
given their love to women. But then 
something has happened to change the 
current of their lives, the course of their 
thought : the mundane world has become 
distasteful, and with heavy hearts and 
weary feet they have sought the lonely 
monastery, and, having once entered, the 
door has closed upon them for ever. 
Henceforth the horizon of their world is 
the monastery wall ; and the only sounds 
they will hear save the wind when it howls, 
or the thunder when tt rolls, are the 
eternal tolling of the hell, and the wail 
and chant of the monotonous prayers. It 
is difficult to understand how men, young, 
rich, well-favoured, can seclude themselves 
in this busy and wonderful age ; and, re- 
nouncing all the pleasures and gaiety of 
the world, take upon themselves solemn 
vevs cf L| ^^^ ? ^^ich, once 



taken, are devoutly kept. To God and 
God's service they dedicate themselves ; 
and though on the earth, they are scarcely 
of it. They live, but for them it is the 
beginning of fcternity ; the passion and 
fret of the world will never more disturb 
them, and their one longing is to change 
the finite fpr the infinite. It is surely no 
ordinary faith that impels men to enter 
into a living death of this kind, nor is it 
fanaticism, but a devotion too deep for 
words, too mysterious for ordinary com- 
prehensions to grasp. One must go back 
to' the eleventh century for the beginning 
of the history of this strange Order. It was 
founded by St. Bruno, of Cologne, who 
imposed upon his votaries " Solitude," 
44 Silence," and "Fasting." For above 
eight hundred years the Carthusians have 
been true to their saint, and wherever they 
have established themselves they have 
lived their lives of silence, knowing nothing 
of the seductive and tender influence of 
women, or the love and sweetness of 
children ; dying, when their time came, 
without a pang of regret at leaving the 
world, and with nothing to perpetuate their 
memories, save a tiny wooden cross, on 
which a number is painted. But in half a 
dozen years or so the cross rots away, and 
is never renewed, and the dead brother is 
referred to no more. 

The lonely convent of the Grande Char- 
treuse is as old as the Order, although it has 
undergone considerable change. It is now 
a great building, occupying a considerable 
extent of ground, but originally it must 
have been a single small house. It stands 
in a defile, in a region of utter loneliness. 
Gradually it has grown and expanded, and 
in order to protect it against the attacks of 
thieves and marauders, it is surrounded by 
a massive wall that is loopholed and em- 
brasured. For what purpose it is difficult 
to say, for these monks would never take 
human life, not even to save their own. 
So far, however, as I have been able to 
learn there is no record of the convent 
having been seriously attacked during any 
period of its history. But in the Revolu- 
tion of 1792 the monks were cruelly ex- 
pelled, and their most valuable library was 
destroyed. They separated in little groups, 
and found refuge in holy houses of their 
order in different parts of Europe, until the 
restoration of 18 1 5— that memorable year 
— when they reunited and returned to 
their beloved monastery amid the solitude 
of the eternal mountains. 

by Google 

La Grande Chartreuse is situated 
amidst scenes of savage grandeur, 3,800 
feet above the sea, at the foot of the 
Mont Grand Som, which reaches a 
height of 6,668 feet, and commands 
a view of surpassing magnificence. It 
is in the Department of Isfcre, France, 
and eight hours' journey from Grenoble, 
which is the capital of the Department, and 
famous for its gloves. The nearest railway 
station is a five hours' journey away, and 
there is no other human habitation within 
many miles of the convent. The approaches 
are by wild and rugged gorges, through 
which excellent roads have of late years 
been made, but formerly these gorges might 
have been held by a handful of men against 
a host. In the winter the roads are blocked 
with snow, and between the lonely convent 
and the outer world there is little com- 
munication. In summer the pine woods 
look solemn and dark, and the ravines are 
filled with the music of falling waters. 
There is a strange absence of bird melody, 
and the wind sighs amongst the pines, and 
moans around the rocks. And yet the 
region is one of entrancing beauty, and full 
of a dreamy repose that makes its influence 

To this lonely convent I travelled one 
day in the late autumfi, when the falling 
leaves spoke sadly of departed summer 
glories, and the shrill blasts that came down 
the glens were messengers from the regions 
of ice and snow. I had gone by train to 
Voiron, between Rives and Grenoble, and 
thence had tramped through the beautiful 
gorges of Crossey for five hours. The 
afternoon had been sullen, and bitterly cold, 
and the shades of night were fast falling 
as, weary and hungry, I rang the great bell 
at the convent gate, and begged for hospi- 
tality. A tall, cowled monk received me, 
but uttered no word. He merely made a 
sign for me to follow him, and, closing the 
gate and shooting the massive bolts, he 
led the way across a court, where I was met 
by another monk, who was allowed to break 
the rigid vow of silence so far that he 
could inquire of strangers , what their busi- 
ness was. He asked me if I desired food 
and rest, and on my answering in the 
affirmative he led me to a third and silent 
brother, and by him I was conducted to a 
cell with whitewashed walls. It contained 
a small bed of unpainted pine wood, and a 
tiny table, on which was an iron basin and 
a jug of water. A crucifix hung on the 
wall, and beneath it was a pric-dieu. The 
Original from 




cell was somehow suggestive of a prison, 
and yet I am not sure that there was as 
much comfort to be found m it as a prison 
cell affords in these humanitarian times. 
Everything about the Grande Chartreuse 
is of Spartan- 
like ' simplicity. 
There the body 
is mortified tor 
the sours sake, 
and nothing that 
could pander in 
the least degree 
to luxurious 
tastes is allowed. 
AS I was to learn 
after wards , even 
such barren com- 
fort as is afforded 
by this "Visitor's 
Cell" is unknown 
in the cells occu- 
pied by the 

When I had 
somewhat fresh- 
ened myself up 
by a wash s I went 
into the corridor 
where my at- 
tendant was wait- 
ing, and, follow- 
ing him in obedi- 
ence to a sign he 
made, I traversed 
a long, lofty, cold 
passage, with 
bare walls and floor. At the end of the 
passage there was carved in the stone 
the Latin inscription, Stat crux dum 
vnlvitur or his. Passing through an arched 
doorway we reached the refectory. The 
great hall or supper room was cold, barren, 
and dismal. Everything looked ghostly 
and dim in the feeble light shed by two 
small swinging lamps, that seemed rather 
to emphasise the gloom than dispel it. 
Comfort there was none in this echoing 
chamber, with its whitewashed walls and 
shadowy recesses, from which I half ex- 
pected to see the spirit forms of dead monks 
glide, Taking my seat at a small, bare 
table, a silent brother placed before me a 
bowl of thin vegetable soup, in which some 
chopped eggs floated. Fish followed, then 
an omelette, and the whole was washed 
down with a bottle of excellent red wine. 
It was a frugal repast, but an Epicurean 
spread as compared with the dietary scale 

Digitized by t*< 

of the monks themselves. Meat of every 
kind is rigorously interdicted, that is, the 
flesh of animals in any form. Each brother 
only gets two meals a day. They consist of 
hot water flavoured with egg ; vegetables 
cooked in oil ; while the only 
drink allowed is cold water. The 
r ~T7~ monks do not eat together except 
on Sundays and religious fete days p 
when they all sup in the refectory. 

On other davs every man has his meals 
alone, in the solitude of his cell, and but a 
brief time is allowed him, for it is considered 
sinful to spend more time in eating and 
drinking than is absolutely necessary to 
swallow down so much food as will hold 
body and soul together. That men mav 
keep themselves healthy, even on such 
meagre diet as that I have mentioned, is 
proved by the monks of the Grande Char- 
treuse, for they enjoy excellent health, and 
generally live to a green old age, Even 
the weak and delicate grow strong and 
hardy under the severe discipline. The 
rasping friction of the nervous system, 
which annually slays its tens of thousands 
in the outer world, is unknown here. All 
is calm and peaceful, and the austerity of 
the life led is compensated for by the abid- 
ing and hopeful faith. It is a brief prepara- 
tion for an eternal life of unsullied joy in a 
world where man's pin is known no more. 




Surely nothing else but such a faith could 
sustain mortal beings under an ordeal so 

This strange community of Carthusians 
is divided into categories of "Fathers" 
and " Brothers. 1 ' The former wear robes 
of white wool, cinctured with a girdle 
of white leather. Their heads and faces 
are closely shaven, and the head is gener- 
ally enveloped in a 
cowl, which is at- 
tached to the robe, 
They are all or- 
dained priests, and 
it is to them the 
rule of silence, soli- 
tude, and fasting, 
more particularly 
applies. The fasting 
is represented by the 
daily bill of fare I 
have given, and it 
never varies all the 
year round, except 
on Fridays and cer- 
tain days in Lent, 
when, pjor as it is, 
it is still further re- 
duced. The solitude 
consists of many 
hours spent in 
prayer in the loneli- 
ness of the cell, and 
the silence imposed 
is only broken by 
monosyllabic an- 
swers to questions 
addressed to them. 
Sustained conversa- 
tion is a fault, and 
would be severely 

finished. Aspirants 
or the Fatherhood 
have to submit to a most trying novi- 
tiate, which lasts for five full years. After 
that they are ordained, and from that 
moment they renounce the world, with all 
its luring temptations and its sin. Their 
lives henceforth must be strictly holy in 
accordance with the tenets of their religion. 
The Brothers are the manual labourers, the 
hewers of wood and drawers of water. 
They do everything that is required in the 
way of domestic service. They wear 
sandals on their bare feet, and their bodies 
are clothed in a long, loose, brown robe, 
fastened at the waUt by a rope girdle. On 
both branches of the Order the same severe 
regtmc is compulsory, but on Fridays the 

Digitized by t_i 



Brothers only get a morsel of black bread 
and a cup of cold water. The attention to 
spiritual duties is all-absorbing, and under 
no circumstances must it be relaxed. Matins 
commence in the chapel at twelve o'clock 
at night, and continue until about two 
o'clock. After a short rest, the Divine 
service is resumed at six o'clock. Rut 
all the monks do not attend the matins 

at one time, While 
some sleep others 
pray. And it is 
doubtful if amongst 
the religious orders 
of the world any- 
thing more solemn 
and impressive than 
this midnight ser- 
vice could be found. 
To witness it was my 
chief aim in going to 
the convent, and so 
I left my cell after a 
short sleep, and pro- 
ceeded to the chapel 
as the deep-toned 
bell struck twelve 
with sonorous 
sounds that rolled 
in ghostly echoes 
along the lofty corri 
dors. The passage 
through which I 
made my way was a 
vast one, and a soli- 
tary lamp ineffectu- 
ally struggled to 
illumine the dark- 
ness. I groped along 
until I reached a 
door that swung 
silently open to my 
touch, Then I stood 
where all was silent, 
and a Cimmerian gloom reigned. Far in 
the depths of the darkness was a glimmer- 
ing, star-like lamp over the altar, but its 
beams, feeble and straggling, revealed no- 
thing, it only accentuated the pitchy black- 
ness all around. The feeble lanterns of the 
monks, one to every third stall, were in- 
visible from my position, Everything was 
suggestive of a tomb far down in the bowels 
of the earth — the silence, the cold, the damp 
earthy smell that filled one's nostrils, all 
seemed to indicate decaying mortality. 
Suddenly, with startling abruptness, a single 
voice broke into a plaintive, monotonous 
chant, Then others took up the cadence 


within the chapel, 


with a moaning wail thai gradually died 
away until there wasunbroken .silence again. 
There was something strange and weird in 
this performance for the impenetrable dark- 
ness, the star-like lamp, the wailing voices 
of unseen figures, seemed altogether un- 
natural. Jt begot 
in me a shudder 
that I could not 
repress for the 
moaning and 
wailing appeared 
tti be associated 

day, when their anguish should cease for 
ever and rest be found. At last, to my 
great relief, I saw the beams of a new morn 
steal in at the chapel windows. The Sowed 
forms of the cowled monks were faintly 
discernible, kneeling before the altar, where 
still burned the watch -lamp. One by one 
they rose and tlilted away like shadows ; no 
sound came from their footfalls, no rustle 
from their garments. Warmly clad though 
I was, I shivered with the cold, and was 
cramped with the position I had maintained 
for hours ; for J had been fearful of moving 


with death rather than life. There was 
nothing in the whole ceremony indicative 
of joy or hope, but rather their converse 
—sadness and despair. Throughout those 
weary hours the wailing chant and the 
silence alternated, I* wanted to go away, 
but could not. Some strange fascination 
kept me there, and I recalled some of 
the wonderfuj descriptive scenes in Dante 
which were irresistibly suggested. My 
imagination was wrought on to such an 
extent that I pictured that vast gloomy 
space as filled with unquiet spirits con- 
demned to torture ; and the lamp as 
typical of the one ray of hope that 
told them that after a long period of 
penance they should pass from the gloom 
of woe to the lightness and joy of eternal 

by Google 

lest any harsh, grating noise should break 
in upon that solemn and impressive silence, 
When all had gone I too went, and made 
my way back to the cell^ where I tried to 
snatch a few hours' sleep, but it was all in 
vain, for my mind seemed as if it had been 
upset by a strange and terrible dream. 
Although I have had a wide and varied ex- 
perience of men and manners in all parts of 
the world, I never witnessed such a strange 
scene before as I witnessed that night. It 
was like a nightmare picture, a poem 
evolved from a distorted imagination. 
I say a poem because it had the elements 
of poetry in it, but it was the poetry nf 
ineffable' human sadness. 

Truly it is singular that men can so 
strengthen their faith, so enwrap them- 
selves, as it were, in a gloomy creed, that 
they are willing to deny themselves every 
pleasure in life, to shut themselves off from 
all that is joyous and beautiful in the world, 
in order to submit to an endless sorrowing 

Original from 



for human sins ; a sorrowing that finds 
expression every hour of their lonely, 
saddened lives, For from sunset to sun- 
rise, and sunrise to sunset again, they arc 
warned by the mournful tolling of the iron 

fact that the monastic vows arc faithfully 
and religiously kept ; and there is no 
Tecord of a Carthusian monk ever having 
broken his vow. Surely then there must 
be something strangely, even terribly 

^1 n o pV ^ Ci l' t 

bell, every quivering stroke of which seems 
to say " death," to pray without ceasing. 

Many of the monks at the Grande Chart- 
reuse are still In the very prime of their 
manhood, and not a few of them are 
members of distinguished and wealthy 
families. Yet they have renounced every- 
thing ; all the advantages that influence 
and wealth could give them ; all the com- 
forts of home ; the love of wife and 
children ; the fascination of travel and of 
strange sights — every temptation that 
this most beautiful world could hold out 
has been resisted, and they have dedicated 
themselves to gloom, fasting, and silence. 
Verily, human nature is an unfathomable 
mystery. One may well ask if these monks 
are truly happy? If they have no long- 
ings for the flesh-pots of Egypt? If they 
do not sometimes pine and sigh for the 
busy haunts and the excitement of the great 
towns? Such questions are not easily 
answered, unless we get the answer in the 

attractive in that stern life which is so full 
of hardship and trial, and from year's end 
to year's end knows no change, until the 
great change which comes to us all, 
sooner or later, whether we be monks or 

I have already mentioned that notwith- 
standing their sparse and meagre diet, which 
seems to us ordinary mortals to lack nutri- 
ment and sustaining power, the monks of 
the Grande Chartreuse are healthy and vig- 
orous. The Brothers labour in their fields 
and gardens and they cultivate all the 
vegetables that they use, as well as grow 
most of their own corn for the bread* 
They do any bricklaying, carpentering, or 
painting that may be "required, as well as all 
the washing and mending of the establish- 
ment, for a woman is never allowed t<\ 
enter the sacred precincts. The furniture 
of each cell consists of a very narrow bed 
as hard as a board, and with little covering ; 
a small stove, for die rigours of the climate 




render a fire indispensable at times, and yet 
the fires are used but sparingly ; a little 
basin, with a jug of water for ablutions ; 
and of course there is the prie-dieu, and 
the image of a saint. Attached to the 
convent is a cemetery, which cannot fail to 
have a very melancholy interest for the 
visitor. It is divided into two parts, one 
being for the Fathers, the other for the 
Brothers, for as the two branches of the 
Order are kept distinct in life, so they are 
separated in death. No mounds mark the 
last resting-places of the quiet sleepers ; but 
at the head of each is a wooden cross, 
though it bears no indication of the name, 
age, or date of death of the deceased — only 
a number. Having played his little part 
and returned to the dust from whence he 
sprang, it is considered meet that the 
Carthusian should be forgotten. And the 
cross is merely an indication that beneath 
moulder the remains of what was once a 

As is well known, the monks distil the 
famous liqueur which finds its way to all 
parts of the world, and yields a very hand- 
some revenue. The process of its concoction 
is an inviolable secret, but it is largely com- 
posed of herbs and cognac. It is said that 
the recipe was brought to the convent by 
one of the fathers, who had been expelled 
in 1792, and that at first the liqueur was 
used as a medicine and distributed amongst 
the poor. In the course of time, however, 
it was improved upon, for its fame having 
spread a demand for it sprang up, and it 
was resolved to make it an article of 
commerce. For this purpose a separate 
building was erected apart from the 
monastery, and placed in charge of one of 
the Fathers, who has a staff of brothers 
under him. The basis of the liqueur is 
supposed to be an indigenous mountain 
herb combined with the petals of certain 
wild flowers. These are macerated with 
honey until fermentation takes place. The 
liquid is then refined and brandy is added. 
Formerly it was made without brandy. 
The " green " is most favoured by con- 
naisseurs, and its exquisite, delicate frag- 
rance and flavour have never been imitated. 
More care is bestowed upon the " green " 
than the "yellow," which is somewhat 
inferior in quality and of a coarser flavour. 
On several occasions very large sums have 
been offered for the right to manufacture 
the chartreuse by financial speculators, but 
all such offers have been resolutely refused. 
Although I believe that the greater part of 

Digitized by v^OOQlC 

the income of the convent is spent in 
deeds of charity, it may be doubted by 
some people whether it is not a somewhat 
questionable way for a religious Order to 
augment its funds by the preparation of an 
intoxicating liquor for which, according to 
their own doctrine, there is absolutely no 
need. The chartreuse has a strong rival 
in the well-known benedictine, made by 
the Benedictine Monks ; and which, while 
being similar in character, is said by some 
to be superior. There is little doubt, how- 
ever, that the chartreuse has much the 
larger sale of the two. Many attempts 
have been made from time to time by 
outsiders to manufacture both these 
liqueurs, but without success, and the 
exact secret of their decoction is as reli- 
giously preserved as are the secrets of 

Like the Great St. Bernard, the Grande 
Chartreuse, though not to the same extent, 
is a show place in summer. Perhaps this 
is hardly a fair way of putting it, for it 
would be a cruel injustice to let it be 
supposed that the Chartreux had the 
slightest desire to make an exhibition of 
their lonely convent. But the travelling 
facilities afforded the tourist nowadays 
enable him to penetrate to the remotest 
recesses of the earth. No place is sacred 
to him ; and as he thinks nothing of going 
into a Continental theatre dressed in a 
tweed suit, so he does not hesitate, garbed 
in hob-nailed boots and knickerbockers, to 
demand entrance into the Grande Chart- 
reuse, whose mystery he does not under- 
stand and cares nought for, and whose 
solemnity does not awe him. To refuse 
hospitality even to the irreverent curiosity- 
monger would be contrary to the Car- 
thusian's creed, which teaches charity to all 
men, and to " turn no deaf ear to him who 
asks for bread and succour." And so any- 
thing of the masculine gender is admitted 
and fed with the frugal fare that is now 
specially provided for visitors ; and very 
properly he who partakes of this hospitality, 
not being in actual want of it, is required 
to pay for his entertainment. The ordinary 
visitor is not allowed to pass the night under 
the roof of the convent, and therefore that 
strange and ghostly service in the chapel 
during the hours of darkness is rarely 
witnessed. The Grande Chartreuse boasts 
of a magnificent library, which numbers 
upwards of 20,000 volumes, for the most 
part of a theological nature. Many of 
these books are unique and of great age, 




and to the theological student would 
probably prove a mine of wealth. Amongst 
the volumes are some very rare Bibles and 
Prayer-books of nearly every civilised 
country in the world. This library replaces 
the one that was destroyed, and has been 
collected during the present century. 
What is known as the Chapter* room k 

an exception to the rest of the place, inas- 
much as it is hung with portraits of the 
Father Superiors from the very foundation 
of the Order. There are about fifty of 
these portraits altogether, and some of the 
earlier ones are more curious than artistic. 
The " Superiors " are the only men of the 
Order whose memory i* thu* kept alive. 

The Grand Cloister is the largest apart- 
ment in the building. It is a not quite 
perfect square, and is lighted by a hundred 
and thirty windows* A portion of this cloister 
dates back to the early part of the thirteenth 
century. There are two main corridors, 
seven hundred and twenty-two feet long, 
and abutting on these corridors are the 
cells . thirty-six in number. There is also 


a Chapelle des Morts, built about the end 
of the thirteenth century. Here the bodies 
of the dead monks rest during the religious 
services that are held over them before 
they are finally consigned to the little 
cemetery to which I have already made 
reference, Nor must 1 forget to mention 
what is known as the Map-room, where 
there is a very valuable col- 
lection of maps of different 
parts of the world, but par- 
ticularly of France. There 
is also a small museum of 
insects and butterflies indi- 
genous to the mountains of 
the region in which the con- 
vent is situated. That re- 
gion is the southern group 
of the singularly interesting 
limestone Alps of Savoy, 
and the convent stands in 
about the middle section of 
the group which culminates 
in the Pointe de Cham- 
ehaude, 6,^45 feet high. 

In choosing the site for 
the convent, there is little 
doubt that isolation as well 
as a position of natural de- 
fence were aimed at. Isolated 
it truly isj and up to a 
couple of hundred years ago 
it must have been absolutely 
impregnable. But it is well 
known that the monks of 
old had an eye also to 
beauty of surroundings, 
and it is doubtful if the 
faithful followers of St. 
Bruno could have found 
a site commanding a view 
of more magnificent beauty 
in all France than that which the Grande 
Chartreuse occupies, and by ascending to 
the summit of the Grand Som, which 
throws its shadow over the convent, a 
panorama of unsurpa^ed grandeur is 
unfolded to the wondering gaze. To 
the we>t it embraces the valley of the 
Rhone* the town of Lyons, and the moun- 
tains of Ardeehe and Forez ; to the east 
the chain of glittering Alps that stretches 
from Mont Visio to Mont Blanc ; to the 
north is the Mont du Chat of Chambery t 
the Lake of Bourget, and that part of the 
Rhone Valley which is bounded by the 
rugged peaks of the purple Jura, while 
to the south are smiling valleys and rolling 
uplands. Original from 




This view of the outer world is all the 
monks ever obtain , for, having once taken 
the vows, they leave the convent no more ; 
and they know little of what goes on in the 
busy haunts of men, where the passion of 
life reaches fever heat, save what they 
gather from the chattering of the throngs 
of summer idlers. In winter they live in 
a silent, white world, and the face of a 
stranger is very rarely seen. 

Before leaving the neighbourhood 1 paid 
a visit to the Chapel le de St, Bruno, which 
is within half an hour's walk of the 
monastery. It is erected in a very wild 
spot, said to be the site of the saint's 
original hermitage. There is nothing par- 
ticularly interesting in the chapel, which is 
in a state of dilapidation. But it is curious 
to speculate that here dwelt, in what was 
little more than a cavern, the man who, by 

the austerity of his life and his gloomy 
views, was able to found a religious Order 
which has endured for many ages, and is 
one of the few that escaped destruction 
during the revolutions and upheavals of the 
last century. The situation of the Chapelle 
is one of singular loneliness and desolation, 
and for eight months of the year at least it 
is buried in snow, 

As I turned my back upon the Grande 
Chartreuse, after that memorable night 
spent under its roof, and feeling grateful 
for the shelter and refreshment it had 
afforded me r the morning sun was gilding 
the glorious landscape, and I breathed a 
sigh of relief and gladness, for I seemed to 
have come from a region of sorrow and 
gloom, where the coldness of death was 
ever present, into the healthy, joyous life 
of the throbbing, breathing world* 


by Google 

Original from 

Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives. 

From a Drawing t^ Sir- Thomat ImjiUHH, ft K.A . 


From a] 

AG* :'. 


From 4 thtfo. ftp] pbesknt DKY, 


Fran* a Drnwiny btt] 


E here present a series of 

tm portraits of the Queen, which, 

' ■ together with the portrait 

^V given on our first page, com- 

--. J pletely represent the features 

.-.., it^^^^'_I_J of Ilor Alajc- 

iB.un* t A.!LA, hocxl until the present day. 


of Hpj ^Majesty front baby- 




Born 1857* 

T is fitting that next 
the portraits of Her 
Majesty the Queen 
should be placed those 
of the daughter who 
has been her most con- 
stant companion of late years. 

/'rand a\ 

AGE 4. 

r Phi+iwnph, FnM a l*ainti*V hf\ AGE J. 


From n Lii/toftrapii by Mfirtn ft rf Jf acJeftuld. 
AGE 17. 

Digitized by Go 

^>rHl^ rj I'htAto, 


c^rr*. Elliott Q *>y. 




\ • 

From a Minia'vn i># W. C. Bv**i A,R.A., Jf i jrioturr Paint* r to th* Qnmr. 


./V'fJm a] 

ALiE 6. 


Ft am a Pi*-ntrv bp] ACE iB. 


AHV, child, bride, and widow most interesting in existence, is that which 

— such are the four portraits the Queen with her own hand depicted of 

of the Queen's eldest daughter her baby while it was still in swaddling- 

which we give above. An clothes, and which we have the pleasure of 

earlier portrait even than the presenting to our readers as the frontis* 

first of these, and one of the piece of the present number. 




t Vflm a Urateim hi age 28* 

IJ* E. Stfinlv** 

ft'^m a J'trtrtn. by] 

AGE 45. [Mtrvt KUiottf. fiit. 


Born 1823. 

SfiT the 

Duke of Argyll, who 

had succeeded to 

the dukedom four 

years earlier, was 

already well known 

as a writer, a 

politician, and a 

public speaker, and 

as one who took 

keen interest in all 

Scottish questions 

which came before 

the public. At this 

age t also, he was 

elected Chancellor 

of the University of 

St. Andrews, and 

was already 9 what 

he has since remained, one of the most 

prominent figures in the House ol Lords. 

The Duke, who has held many of the 

zed b\ 

From a Ffctffl. ty] 

AQE 67, 

highest offices in 
various Govern- 
ments, was, at the 
age at which he is 
represented in our 
second picture. 
Secretary of State 
for India under Mr. 
Gladstone. But as 
a politician the 
Duke's position is 
not easy to define ; 
he Has been de- 
scribed as " Whig 
by family, Liberal 
by intellect, Inde- 
pendent by nature, 
and Conservative by 
inclination/' But it 
is in questions of 
science and theology 
rather than in poli- 
tics that the Duke's 
name is known, and 
his most celebrated 
book, u The Reign 
of Law, 1 ' was con- 
sidered by Darwin 
himself so powerful an attack upon the 
Theory of Descent as to call for special 



;.Vti*r*. EUiatt £ F t y m 



HVM a] AGE 5* [rhotoffrnfih. 

tram* Hw^ifO *ge *> 

[,t. iSa*«jifJu 


HE first photograph we give 
of Mr. Herbert Beerbohm 
Tree, shows him at the age of 
five T then a cherubic and rosy 
boy of seemingly serious dis- 
position. The second like- 
ness represents him at seventeen , soon 
alter he Juid left the college of Schnep- 
fenthal in Thuringia, where he received his 
education, but where, according to his own 
modest statement, he acquired no distinc- 
tion in the walks of learning. But so great 
was his evident talent for acting that he 
was persuaded to adopt the stage as a 
profession, with what instant success we all 
know. He became manager of the Hay- 


JfaMI a n<iM. ha] AGK 17. \Tk* Stwotcopir Co. 

From a Fhoto. btf] 

AGF 36. 

[The Siena 

market in 1887, As a manager he has 
shown not only enterprise, but an almost 
quixotic liberality. His latest Monday 
night venture has proved one of the 
happiest of his many happy thoughts. 

For leave to reproduce these portraits 
we have to thank the kindness of Mr. 
Beerbohm Tree. 




and magazines, During the Prusso- Aus- 
trian War of 1866 he acted as the Special 
Correspondent of the Morning Star. Scene s 
taken from his adventures appeared in his 
first novel, "Lot© or Marriage," which he 


From a Photp. fty] 

(ytiiui> flry*., fiUtaifutr, 


Born 1841:, 

R, BLACK'S ambition as a 
boy was to become an artist, 
and he studied for a short 
time in the School of Art at 
Glasgow, in which city he 
was born. 

Ftom a Photo. b$\ 

age 30. LStaruwur, &irtHiny*mi\, 

11 As an artist," he tells 
us, " I was a complete 
failure, and so qualified 
myself for a time m 
after life as an art 
critic/ 1 Yet in feeling 
for the beauty of sea, 
forest, moor, and hill, 
and in graphic power 
of painting them in 
words, Mr, Black has 
rarely had a rival. At 
twenty, the age at 
which our first portrait 
shows him, he hail 
already turned to jour- 
nalism, and was writing 
in the Glasgow Wetkiy 
Citizen. Three years 
afterwards he came to 
London, where he 
wrote for newspapers 

wrote on his return. Several other novels 
followed during the next four or five years, 
none of which had any great success ; but 
in 1S71. just at the age depicted in our 
second portrait, Mr. 
Black produced the 
striking story — " A 
Daughter of Heth/* 
Since then, his books 
have become household 
words, and probably no 
living author has given 
pleasure to so many 
readers by means at 
once so simple and so 
fine. With less of plot 
and startling incident 
than almost any novel- 
ist, Mr, Black has two 
points nf excellence in 
which he stands alone 
— in power of painting 
scenery and of depict- 
ing charming girls. 

We are indebted for 
these portraits to the 
iMwrr£UiJhpMU n ft bourtesy of Mr. Black. 



/Vtmi rf] 

AtiB iB. Miniuturp. 


HAM was, at eighteen, 
the age at which our 
first portrait represents 
him, a medical student 
at Liverpool, at which 
city he was born ; but having taken 
his degrees of L.R.CS, and L,S.A,, he 
went ? at tWOTty-one f to America, and 
made his first appearance as an actor 
at Washington, with John Wilkes 
Booth, to whose Hnmkt he played 
Osru\ Booth, who perhaps was 
never wholly sane, and who three 
years later made himself a name of 
world-wide infamy by shooting Presi- 
dent Lincoln in a theatre-box, saw so 
little sign of genius in the new actor 
that he discharged him for incom- 
petency. Mr. Wyndham then served 
as surgeon to the iqth Army Corps, 
and was present at some of the mo>t 
deadly battles of the Civil War. His 
appearance at that time was that of 
our second portrait, which represents 
him in his uniform. Two years later, 
on his return to Kngland, he again 
went on the boards, and entered at 
once upon the career which has long 
been recognised as that of the finest 
light comedian at present on the 

i .■ UJJ .7 /'Auto, h'fl 

agk tm 

Yr* for*; 

• on the stage. 

From a PAato. b ¥ ] Ori Q HMkilPCUfflr. 


rnian Heath, 




T 19, John 

Rowlands, a 

poor Welsh 

boy, had 


to Am erica , 
had been adopted by a 
merchant of the name of 
Stanley, and had assumed 
the latter name. At 22, 
his adopting father having 
died without a will, young 
Stanley was serving as a 
petty officer on board the 
war -ship Minnesota. At 
26 he had become a jour- 
nalist, and was about to 
represent the New York 
Herald with the British 
army in Abyssinia. On 
re turning fronuh is expedi- 
tion he delivered lectures 
on his ad ventures j a handbill of which we 
reproduce on the page opposite, as a 
veritable curiosity. At 31 he had dis- 
covered Dr. Livingstone f and had returned 

with glory. What Mr. Stanley 
has done recently is known to 
all the world. 

From u* 

[t'ftoti'ifiajph. f-'nym a) 


From a Photo, bjf} A GB a6. [Rockvxil 4 Co., A>u* York. 

3 y Google 

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Fac-simile of Handbill of Mr. H. M, Stanxey ! s first Lecture in America* 

{Half original size) 

Original from 

by Google 

Stones of the Victoria Cross : Told by Those who have IVon it* 

fO tales of heroism arc more 
thrilling and exciting than the 
narratives of the exploits 
which have gained the coveted 
reward of the Victoria Cross ; 
and a story never has so much 
reality and vividness as when it comes first- 
hand from the performer of the deed. 
Accordingly, we have asked a number of 
the heroes of the Victoria Cross — a truly 
noble army — to relate in their own language 
how they came to win the most glorious 
decoration open to a soldier, the plain 
bronze cross u For Valour." The narratives 
which follow require no further introduc- 
tion, and will, we think, be found to posses 
an interest which is all their own — the 
interest and impression of reality. 

Sekguaxt Ahlktt- 

One of the most gallant acts which can 
be conceived is the seizing a live shell and 
casting it away, so as to pre- 
vent mischief from its explo- 
sion- A second's delay may 
be fatal, and the man who 
picks up the shelf cannot tell 
whether the second in ques- 
tion will be allowed him, If 
it bursts in his hands it 
means certain death. Not 
only the greatest, but also 
the promptest, courage is 
needed for such an act of 
courage. Among the few 
who have performed such a 
feat is Sergeant Ablett, late 
Grenadier Guards, whose 

From the force of il 1 Ml, and was 
covered by its explosion with gravel and 

Sergeant Baker and others picked me up, 
and asked if J was hurt I said* kk No ; but 
J have had a good shaking/ 1 There was a 
great number in the trenches al the time, 
but I am glad to say no one was hurt. The 
Sergeant reported the circumstances to the 
officer in charge. 

On coming off duty I was taken before 
the commanding officer, and promoted to 
the rank of Corporal and then Sergeant. 
He also presented me with a silk necktie 
made by her most gracious Majesty. 1 
was at the battles of Alma, Balaclava, 
lnkerman, and the capture of Sebastopol 
after eleven months* siege This is all I 
think I need say as to myself and the Vic- 
toria Cross. My likeness is to be found in 
Victoria Cross Picture Gallerv, Crv-tal 
Palace, and Alexandra Palace. 

own modest 
follows : — 

account is as 

On the 2nd September, 
1854, when in the trenches 
before Sebastopol, the sen- 
tries shouted M Look out 
there ! " a shell coming right 
in the trenches at the same 
moment and dropping 
amongst some barrels of 
ammunition, I at once 
pulled it from them. It ran 
between my legs, and I then 
picked it up and threw it 
out of the trench ; it burst 
as it touched the ground 


sy Google 

* w ,T "OrttiffftFTIWh" 



Major John Berryman. 

Among those who won the Victoria Cross 
at Balaclava none gained it more worthily 
than Major John Berryman, who served in 
the Crimea as Troop-Sergeant Major in the 
17th Lancers. This is how Major Berry- 
man describes the charge of the Light 
Brigade : — 

" Gallop ! " was the order as the firing 
became general. And here a discharge 
from the battery in our front, whose guns 
were doubly shotted, first with shot or shell, 
and then with case, swept away Captain 
Winter and the whole division on my right. 
The gap was noticed by Captain Morris, 
who gave the order, " Right incline, 7 ' but a 
warning voice came from mycoverer in the 
rear rank (Corporal John Penn), " Keep 
straight on, Jack ; keep straight on." He 
saw what I did not, that we were opposite 
the intervals of the guns, and thus we 
escaped, for the next round must have 
swept us into eternity. My attention 
here was attracted to James Melrose, 
a Shakespearian reciter, calling out, 
44 What man here would ask another 
man from England ? " Poor fellow, they 
were the last words he spoke, for the next 
round from the guns killed him and many 
others. We were then so close to the guns 
that the report rang through my head, and 
I felt that I. was quite deaf for a time. It 
was this round that broke my mare's off 
hind leg, and caused her to stop instantly. 
I felt that I was hit, but not till I dis- 
mounted. Seeing that the mare's leg was 
broken, I debated in my own mind whether 
to shoot her or not, when Captain Webb 
came up to me, and asked me, was I 
Avounded ? I replied, " Only slightly, I 
thought, in the leg, but that my horse 
was shot." I then asked, " Are you hurt, 
sir ? " He said that he was, and in the leg, 
too ; what had he better do ? " Keep to 
your horse, sir, and get back as far as you 
can." He turned, and rode back. I now 
caught a loose horse, and got on to his 
back, but he fell directly, the brass of the 
breast-plate having been driven into his 
chest. Seeing that there was no hope of 
my joining the regiment in the melee, and 
the nth Hussars being close upon me, I 
moved a little to the right, so as to pass 
through the interval between the squadrons. 
Both squadrons closed in a little, and let me 
pass through. I well remember that Ser- 
geant Gutteridge was the right guide of the 
2nd squadron. Finding that Captain Webb 

by LiOOgle 

had halted, I ran to him, and on inquiries 
found that his wound was so painful that 
he could not ride any further. Lieutenant 
George Smith, of my own regiment, coming 
by, I got him to stand at the horse's head 
whilst I lifted the captain off. Having 
accomplished this, I assisted Smith to mount 
Webb's horse, and ride for a stretcher, 
taking notice where we were. By this time 
the Russians had got back to their guns, 
and re-opened fire. I saw six men of my 
own regiment get together to recount to 
each other their escapes. Seeing their 
danger, I called to them to separate, but 
too late, for a shell dropped amongst them, 
and I don't think one escaped alive. Hear- 
ing me call to these men, Captain Webb 
asked what I thought the Russians would 

14 They are sure to pursue, sir, unless the 
Heavy Brigade comesj down." 

u Then you had better consult your own 
safety, and leave me." 

** Oh no, sir, I shall not leave you now." 
" Perhaps they will only take me pris- 

" If they do, sir, we will go together." 
" Don't mind me, look to yourself." 
" All right, sir ; only we will go together, 
whatever happens." 

Just at this time I saw Sergeant Farrell 
coming by. I called to him. He asked, 
44 Who is it ? " When told, he came over. 
I said, " We must get Captain Webb out of 
this, for we shall be pursued." * 

He agreeing, we made a chair of our 
hands, lifted the Captain up, and found 
that we could carry him with comparative 
ease. We had got about 200 yards in this 
manner, when the Captain complained that 
his leg was very painful. A private of the 
13th being near, Malone, I asked him would 
he be good enough to support Captain 
Webb's legs, until we could procure a 
stretcher ? He did so, and several of the 
officers passed us. Sir G. Wombwell said, 
44 What is the matter, Peck?" (Captain 
Webb's nickname.) 

44 Hit in the leg, old fellow. How did 
you escape ? " 

44 Well, I was unhorsed and taken pris- 
oner, but when the second line came 
down, in the confusion I got away, and, 
seizing the first horse I could, I got away, 
and I find that it is Morris's." 

Sir W. Gordon made the same inquiry, 
and got the same answer. He had a very 
nasty cut on the head, and blood was then 
running down his face. He was carrying 




his dress cap in his hand. We had now 
retched the rear of the Greys, and I pro- 
cured a stretcher from two Infantry band 
boys, and a young officer of the " Greys " 
gave me a u tourniquet, 11 saying that he 
did not know how to apply it, but perhaps 
I might. I put it on the right thigh, and 
screwed it up. Doctor Kendal came here, 
and I pointed out what 1 had done, and 
asked was it right? 

11 Ah ! and you sergeant ? ,T looking at the 
stripes on my arm. 


u Ah ! If you were in French service, 
I would make you an officer on the spot." 
Then, standing in his stirrups and extend- 
ing his right hand, said : — 

u Oh ! it was grand, it was magmfique, 
but it is not war, it is not war/' 

This officer was General Morris* We re- 


11 I could not have done it better myself ; 
bring him along/' 

I and Far r ell now raised the stretcher and 
earned it for about fifty yards, and again 
set it down. I was made aware of an officer 
of the Chasseurs d'Afrique being on my left 
by his placing his hand upon my shoulder. 
I turned and saluted. Pointing to Captain 
Webb, but looking at me, he said : — 

" Your officer ? tT 

" Yes. 

by Google 

sumed our patient, and got to the doctors 
(Massy and Kendal). I saw the boot cut 
off and the nature of the wound, the right 
shin bone being shattered. Farrell made 
an exclamation, and I was motioned to 
take him away. I told him that I should 
go and see the end of it. He said that he was 
too exhausted to do any more. Finding a 
horse in the lines, I mounted him, although 
the animal belonged to the 4th Light 
Dragoons, and thus dropped in behind 
Original from 




the Duke of Cambridge, and heard what 
passed. The Duke, speaking to Lord Car- 
digan, said : — 

" Cardigan, where'sthe Brigade, then ? M 

H There/ 1 said Cardigan. 

4i Is that all of them ? You have lost 
the finest Brigade that ever left the shores 
of England." 

A little further on he spoke to Captain 
Godfrey Morgan (Lord Tredegar) ; — 

il Morgan, wherc's the regiment, then p* 1 

" Your Royal Highness, that is all of 

rt My poor regiment, my poor regi- 
ment ! *' 

I now took my place in the ranks, and, 
in numbering off, being on the extreme 
left, I counted ::. We felt back during 
the night* and, being dismounted, I, with 
my servant, was left behind. I suffered in- 
tensely with my head, and got a napkin 
and tied it as tightly as possible round my 
brows, I also had time to examine my wound, 
which was inside the calf trf my leg. A 
small piece about the si/e of a shilling had 
been cut clean out of my leg ; but except 
that the blood had run into my boots , I felt 
but very little inconvenience from it. Cold 

water bandage was all I used ; but, unfortu- 
nately, scurvy got to it, and it was a lorg 
time healing. 

Private Wiluam Norman. 

Private William Norman, of the 7th Regi- 
ment, in a true modest and soldier- like style 
thus describes the exploit which won for 
him the Victoria Cross : — 

On the night of December iq f 1S54, I 
was placed on single sentry at some distance 
in front of the advanced sentries nf an 
out- lying picquet in the White Horse 
Ravine — a post of much danger, and re- 
quiring great vigilance. The Russian 
picquet was posted 300 yards in our front. 
Three Russian soldiers advanced under 
cover of the brush w T ood for the purpose of 
reconnoitring. I immediately Krai my 
rifle, which was the signal of alarm, and 
then jumped into the trench almo>t on the 
top of the three Russians, two of whom 1 
succeeded single-handed in taking prisoners, 
and marched them into our lines, the other 
one having fled back to the Russian lines. 

My feelings I can hafdly describe, as what 
I did w T as on the spur, of the moment. But 

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it was no doutk the means of saving our 

Private James Davis. 

The attack on Fort Ruhiya on April 15, 
1858, gave an opportunity for much display 
of courage and devotion. Among those 
who conspicuously distinguished themselves 
was Private James Davis, of the 42nd 
Highlanders. This. , gallant soldier, who 
had previously served throughout the 
Crimean War, also saw much fighting during 
the Indian Mutiny, and For his conduct at 
Fort Ruhiya was awarded the Victoria Cross, 

The following is his ac- 
count of the feat which won 
for him the much-prized 
honour : — 

I belonged to the Light 
Company* under the com- 
mand of Captain (now Sir 
John) Macleod. We g-a 
orders to lie down 
under some ttees for a 
>hort time. Two En- 
gineer officers came up 
and- asked for somu 
men to come with them 
10 see where they could 
make a breach with the 
artillery. I was one 
who went. There was 
a small garden ditch 
under the walls of the 
fort, not high enough 
to cover our heads. 
After a short time the 
officers left. I was on 
the right of the ditch 
with Lieut. Alfred 
Jennings Brantley, of 
Tunbridgc Wells', as 
brave a young officer L 
as ever drew sword , 
and saw a large force 
coming out to cut us 
off. He said, " Try 
and shoot the leader. 
I will run down and tell Maelcmi." The 
leader was shot, by whom I don't know. 1 
never took credit for shooting anyone. Be- 
fore poor B ramie v got down he was shot in 
the temple, but not dead. He died during 
the night. 

The captain said; " We can't leave him. 
Who will take him out ? " I said. ^ I will," 
The fort was firing hard all the time. I 
said, " Eadie, give ine a hand, Put him on 

my back," As he was doing so he was 
shot in the back of the head, knocking me 
down, his blood running down my back. 
A man crawled over and pulled Eadie off 
At this time I thought I was shot, the warm 
blood running down my back. The captain 
said, " We can't lose any more lives. Are 
you wounded ? ,J I said, M I don't think I 
He said. li Will vou still take him 





r\\\ Afr;(v«ii ju\ 

rn-i \ SIMCR. 

by Google 

out?" 1 said, "Yes." He was such a 
brave young fellow that the company all 
loved him. 1 got him on my back again, 
and told him to take me tight round the 
neck. I ran across the open space* During 
the time his watch fell out ; I did not like 
to leave it t so I sat down and picked it up, 
all the time under a heavy fire. There \va< 
a man of the name of Dods, who came and 
took him off my back, I went back again 




through the same fire, and helped to take 
up the man Eadie. Then I returned for 
my rifle, and firing a volley we all left* It 
was a badly managed affair altogether 

Private Robert Jones. 

At the gallant defence of the fort at 
Rorke's Drift, every man fought like a hero, 
but some were fortunate enough to attract 
the particular attention of their superiors, 
Among these was a private of the 24th 
Regiment, named Robert Jones^ who 
obtained the Victoria Cross for his conduct 
on the occasion. His story is as follows : — 

"On the 22nd January, 1879, the Zulu- 
attacked us T we being only a small band of 
English soldiers and they in very strong 
an d o ver wh el mi n g n 11 mbe r s . O n com m e nc - 
ing fighting, I was one of the 
soldiers who were in the hos- 
pital to protect it + 1 and 
another soldier of the name 
of William Jones were on 
duty at the back of the hos- 
pital, trying to defeat and 
drive back the rebels, and 
doing our endeavours to 
convey the wounded and sick 
soldiers out through li hole 
in the wall, so that they 
might reach in safety the 
small band of men in the 
square. On retiring from 
one room into another, after 
taking a wounded man by 
the name of Mayer, belong- - 
ing to the volunteers, to join 
William Jones, I found a 
crowd in front of the hospital 
and coming into the door- 
wav- I said to my companion, 
1 They are on top of us/ and 
sprang to one side of the 
do or w ay. There we crossed 
our bayonets, and as fast as 
they came up to the doorway 
we bayoneted them, until 
the doorway was nearly 
filled with dead and wounded 
Zulus. In the meanwhile, I 
had three assegai wounds, two in the right 
side and one in the left of my body. We did 
not know of anyone being in the hospital, 
only the Zulus, and then after a long time 
of fighting at the door, we made the enemy 
retire, and then we made our escape out of 
the building. Just as I got outside, the 
roof fell in— a complete mass of flames and 

Digitized by Lt* 

fire. I had to cross a space of about twenty 
or thirty yards from the ruins of the hospital 
to the leagued company where they were 
keeping the enemy at bay. While I was 
crossing the front of the square, the bullets 
were whishing past me from every direction, 
When I got in, the enemy came on closer 
and closer, until they were close to the 
outer side of our laager, which was made up 

of boxes of bis- 
cuits on sacks of 







or better. As 
to my feelings at 
the time, thev were that I was certain that 
if we did not kill them they would kill us, 
and after a few minutes' fighting I did not 
mind it more than at the present time ; my 
thought W5s only to fight as an English 
soldier ought to for his most gracious 
Sovereign, Queen Victoria, and for the 
benefit of old England. 1 ' 




Gunxer James Collis. 

Gunner James Collis tells his story in 
these words : — 

On the twenty-seventh of July, 1880, wc 
were encamped at Khushk-i-Nakhud, in 
Afghanistan. At 4 a.m. that day we — Bat- 
tery E, Battery B Brigade — marched with the 
rest of the force on Mai wand to meet Ayub 
Khan. About 9 a.m. we came in sight of him 
in position under the hills. We were on the 
open plain. Major Henry Blackwood, com- 
manding my battery, gave the order 
" Action front. " I was a limber gunner 
that day. We began firing w T ith common 
shell from the right of the battery, After 
we had fired a few rounds, their artillery 
replied. The first shot struck the near 
wheel of my gun, killing a gunner, wound- 
ing another, and Lieutenant Fowler. 

The limber box upon my gun was 
smashed by a sjiell which also killed the 
wheel horses, but did not touch the driver. 
Several riding horses of my battery were 
killed, and a good deal of damage done to 
guns and carriage. Four gunners and Ser- 
geant Wood, the No. 1 of my gun, were 
killed, and two men wounded, leaving only 
three men to work the gun. I took Sergeant 
Wood's place. 

At about 1.30 p.m., some of Jacob's 
Rifles, who were lying down about ten 
yards in rear of the trail, began to be panic- 
stricken, and crowded round our guns and 
carriages, some getting under the car- 
riages. Three got under my gun. We 
tried to drive them away, but it was no use. 
About that time we ceased firing a little, 
the enemy having set the example. During 
that pause the enemy on the left got pretty 
close. To check them, General Nuttall 
formed up the 3rd Bombay Cavalry and 
the 3rd Scinde Hfcrse to charge. Gunner 
Smith of my gun, seeing what was going to 
be done, mounted his horse and joined the 
cavalry. General Nuttall led the charge, 
Gunner Smith being at his side. After 
going about 300 yards, the enemy being 
about 200 yards off, the whole line, with 
the exception of the General, the European 
officers, and Gunner Smith, turned tail, 
forming up when in line with the guns. 
General Nuttall with the officers, finding 
themselves deserted, returned, General 
Nuttall actually crying from mortification. 
Gunner Smith dashed on alone, %nd was 
cut down. 

About 4 p.m. a large body of the enemy's 
infantry charged the left of the battery, the 

by LiOOgle 

men of the left division 5 and 6 being com- 
pelled to use their handspikes and charge 
staves to keep them off. Major Blackwood 
on this ordered the battery to limber up 
and retire. When Lieutenant Maclaine 
heard this order he said, as I was afterwards 
informed, " Limber up be damned ! Give 
them another round/' We limbered up 
and retired at a gallop about 2,000 yards. 
In the meantime Major Blackwood remained 
behind with Lieutenant Maclaine's guns 
and was killed, Lieutenant Osborne by his 
side, Lieutenant Maclaine fighting to the 
last. At length, seeing no use in stopping, 
he galloped after us — we had got separated 
from the right division — and called out to 
us, only two guns, " Action, rear." We 
fired two rounds with shrapnel. Cap- 
tain Slade, who had been in temporary 
command of the smoothbores, finding Major 
Blackwood dead, came up with his smooth- 
bores and took command of all the guns. 
Colonel Malcolmson a moment later ordered 
Captain Slade to retire, saying, ,4 Captain 
Slade, if you and the Lieutenant keep those 
two guns, he will lose them the same as he 
has lost his own." We then limbered up and 
went off. Just then a shell burst open our 
treasure chest. Many of the troops and 
camp followers stopped to pick up the maney 
and were overtaken and killed. Just after 
that some of the enemy's cavalry caught up 
the guns. One of them wounded me on the 
left eyebrow as he passed. He wheeled 
round and came at me again ; I took my 
carbine, waited till he was within four or 
five yards, and let drive, hitting him on the 
chest and knocking him off his horse. As 
he fell his money fell out of his turban, and 
Trumpeter Jones jumped off his horse and 
picked it up. He escaped, and is now 
corporal R.H.A., and wears the Distin- 
guished Service medal for his conduct at 

It was now beginning to get dusk, and I 
got off to walk by the side of my gun. 
Seeing a village close by, and some men at 
a well, I followed them and got some water. 
Just as we got to the well the enemy 
charged and drove us off, killing a good 

On my return I missed my gun, and 
picked up with No. 2, which I stuck to till 
I reached Candahar. It was now dark, and 
we were with a stream of men of all regi- 
ments, camp followers, camels, and waggons. 
Going along I saw a lot of sick and wounded 
lying by the side of the road, and I picked 
them up and put them on the gun and 




limber, I had about ten altogether ; they 
were all b6th men, and a colonel whose 
name I do not know and never heard of. 

We had been fighting all day, inarching 
all night and next day without a bit of food 
or a drink of water. I did not feel it so 
much, as I was so occupied, but 1 saw several 
dying by the roadside from thirst and 
fatigue. About four in the afternoon of the 
.:8th, we came to a place called Kokeran, 7^ 
miles from Candahar ; I saw a village where 
I could get water for the men who were 
with me. I went off and brought the water 
back and the men with me, On going to 

saddle. I shot one horse and two men, 
After firing about thirty-five rounds General 
Nuttall came up with some native cavalry, 
and drove them off. When I first saw the 
enemy they were about 300 yards off, when 
they left they had got 150 yards. General 
Nuttall asked me my name, saying, 4b You're 
a gallant young man, what is your name ? " 
I said } " Gunner Coll is, of E. of B, 
R.H.A/' He entered it into a pocket-book 
and rode off. I then followed up my gun, 
which I found some 500 yards distant by 
the side of a river. The enemy V fire, which 
had been going on all the way from Mai- 


the village I saw Lieutenant Madame 
mounted ; when 1 came back I saw two 
hordes without a rider. I then went again 
for more water. I was about ko yards from 
the gun when I saw ten or twelve of the 
enemy's cavalry coming on at a slow pace 
towards the gun. The gun went <>ff and I 
lav down and allowed the gun to pass me, 
and began firing with a rifle which I had 
got from a wounded 66 th man, in order to 
draw their fire upon myself, and stop them 
from going forward with the gun. I was con- 
cealed in a little nullah, and I fancy they 
thought there was more than one man, for 
ihev stopped and fired at me from the 

Digitized by VjOOQIc 

wand* now became hotter, the surrounding 
hills being full of them. Some of the gar- 
rison of Candahar met us about four miles 
from the Fort and escorted us in. I arrived 
about seven p.m. 

On the occasion of the sortie from 
Candahar iti the middle of August, 1HH0, 
the fighting was going on in the village 
situated about :oo vanU from ihe edge ot 
the ditch of the fort, 1 wa- standing by 
my gun an the rampart, when General 
Primrose, General Nuttall, and Colonel 
Burnet came up. I heard them talking about 
sending i:>j0pft!p|af^iitp General Dewberry, 




who had succeeded General Brooke, who 
had been killed, I spoke to Colonel Burnet 
and said that I would take the message 
over the wall. After a little hesitation 
General Primrose gave me a note. I was 
let down a distance of about thirty or forty 
feet to the bottom of the ditch by a rope, 
When half down I was fired at but not hit 
bv matchlock men about 250 yards distant, 
and I scrambled up the open side of the ditch 
and ran across to the village. I found the 
officer commanding in the middle of it* and 
fighting going on all round. I delivered the 

note and returned. When half way up the 
rope I was fired at again t one bullet cutting off 
the heel of my left boot. General Primrose 
congratulated me and Colonel Burnet gave 
me a drop out of his flask, for what with 
not having recovered from the fatigues of 
Mai wand and the exertion and excitement 
of this trip, I was a bit faint. 

1 was recommended for the Victoria 
Cross without my knowledge about Sep- 
tember 10, by Sir F. Roberts, on the report 
uf General Nuttall and Colonel Burnet, It 
was given tome July 28, 1881. 

{To be am tinned,) 

by Google 

Original ffom 

How Novelists Write for the Press. 

^OW authors work — what day, will throw an interesting light, 

methods are peculiar to each William Black, Walter Besant, Bret Harte, 

individual in preparing MS. and Grant Allen— here is a page from the 

for the printer — is a question manuscript of each. Mr. Black's, with 

on which, we think, the which we commence, fine and careful as it 

following fac-similes, of the is, is however only a rough draft, which is 

same size as the originals, of the work of afterwards re-copied, with slight alterations, 

four representative novelists of the present for the press. 

}#*♦% #►*«* /h^ -^ 

V| ;«» 1*K^^- - *w ^ 

Fac-simile of a page of MS. from Mr. WILLIAM BLACK'S Prince Furtunatus. 




iMt-Minile ol the last page but one of the MS. ul Mr. WALTER BESANT'S novel, 

Children or Gibeotu 

Original from 

by Google 







V « 








3 'I 



* | 



n'i« ^ ^ 




4 ^ 1 





1 * 

Facsimile of a page of the MS. of Mr. BRET HARTE'S slory, 
The Twins <>f Tabic Muuuttun. 

Original from 

by Google 





Fac-simile of a page of the MS. of Mr. GRANT ALLEN'S story, Jerry Stokes 

(see next page). 

rv ■»■ ~it, C^f\r%Ci\i^ Original from 


Jerry Stokes. 

By Grant Allen, 

ERRY STOKES was a mem- . 
ber of Her Majesty's civil 
service. To put it more 
plainly, he was the provincial 
hangman. Not a man in all 
Canada, he used to boast with 
pardonable professional pride, had turned 
off ad many famous murderers as he had. He 
was a pillar of the constitution, was Jerry 
Stokes. He represented the Executive. 
And he wasn't ashamed of his office, either. 
Quite on the contrary, £eal for his vocation 
shone visible in his face. He called it a 
useful, a respectable, and a necessary call- 
ing. If it were not for 
him and his utensils, he 
loved to say to the 
gaping ctowd that stood 

through the land ; and he, Jerry Stokes, 
was there to prevent it. He was the 
chosen instrument for its salutary re- 
pression. Executions performed with 
punctuality and despatch ; for terms, apply 
to Jeremiah Stokes, Port Hope, Ontario. 

Not that philanthropy was the most 
salient characteristic in Jerry's outer man. 
He was a short and thick-set person, very 
burly and dogged-looking; he had a massive, 
square head, and a powerful lower jaw, and 
a coarse, bull neck, and a pair of stout arms, 

HE WAS \ I'll!) Lit: HEMEJ-'ACTUk. 

him treat in the saloons, no man's life 
would be safe for a day in the province. 
He was a practical philanthropist in hi> 
way, a public benefactor. It is not good 
that foul crime should stalk unpunished 

Digitized by G* 

acquired in the lumber 
trade, but forcibly suggestive 
of a prize-fighter's occu- 
pation. Except on the 
subject of the Executive, he 
was a taciturn soul ; he had not lung to say, 
and he said it briefly. Silence, stolidity, 
and a marked capacity for the absorption of 
liquids without detriment to hi* centre ot 
gravity, physical or mental, were the lead- 
Original from 




ing traits in Mr, Stokes* 1 character. Those 
who knew him well, however, affirmed that 
Jerry was £l a straight man ,T ; and though 
l he security was perhaps a trifie doubtful, 
11 a straight man tf nevertheless he was 
generally considered by all who had the 
misfortune to require his services. 

It was a principle with Jerry never to 
attend a trial for murder. This showed 
his natural delicacy of feeling- Etiquette, 
1 believe, forbids an undertaker to make 
kind inquiries at the door of a dying person. 
It is feared the object of his visits might be 
misunderstood ; he 
might be considered 
to act from in- 
terested motives, A 
similar and equally 
creditable scruple 
restrained Jerry 
Stokes from putting 
in an appearance at 
a court of justice 
when a capital 
charge was under in- 
vestigation, People 
might think; he said, 
lie was on the look- 
out for a job. Nay, 
more ; his presence 
might even inter- 
fere with the ad- 
ministration of jus- 
tice ; for if the jury 
had happened to 
spot him in the body 
of the hall, it would 
naturally prejudice 
them in t h e 
prisoner's favour. 
To prevent such a 
misfortune — which 
would of course, in- 
cidentally, be bad 
for trade — Mr, 
Stokes denied him- 
self the congenial 
pleasure of follow- 
ing out in detail the 

cases on which he might in the end be 
called upon to operate — except through the 
medium of the public pros, He was a kind- 
hearted man, his friends averred ; and he 
knew that his presence in court might be 
distasteful to the prisoner and the prisoner's 
relations Though, to say the truth, in 
thu^ absenting himself. Mr. Stoke> was 
exercising considerable -elf-denial ; for to 
a hangman, even mure than to all the rest 

Digitized by Cji 

TIIC it-:i-i-:,].x. 

of the world, a good first-class murder case 
is replete with plot -interest. 

Every man, however, is guilty at some 
Lime or other in his life of a breaeh of 
principle ; and once, though once only, in 
his professional experience, Jerry Stokes, 
like the rest of us, gave way to temptation. 
To err is human ; Jerry erred by attending 
a capital trial in Kingston court-house, The 
case was one that aroused immense atten- 
tion at the time in the Dominion. A young 
lawyer at Napa nee, it was said, had poisoned 
his wife to inherit her money, and public 

feeling ran fierce 
and strong against 
him. From the very 
first, this dead set 
of public opinion 
brought out Jerry 
Stokes' >ympathy 
in the prisoner's 
favour. The crowd 
had tried to mob 
Ogilvy — that was 
the man's name — 
on his way from his 
house to jail, and 
again on his jour- 
ney from Napanee 
to Kingston assizes. 
Men shook their 
fists angrily in the 
face of the accused ; 
women surged 
around with deep 
cries, and strove to 
tear him to pieces. 
The polke with 
difficulty prevented 
the swaying mass 
from lynching him 
mi the spot. Jerry 
Stokes, who was 
present, looked on 
at these irregular 
proceedings with a 
d i sa pp r o v ing ey e . 
Most unconsti- 
tutional, to dis- 
member a culprit by main force, without 
form of trial, instead of handing him over 
in due course of law to be properly turned 
off by the appointed officer ! 

So when the trial came on, Jerry Stokes, 
in de&mce of established etiquette, took 
his stand in court, and watched the progress 
of the ease with profound interest. 

The public recognised him, arid nudged 
one another, well pleased. Farmers had 




driven in with their waggons from the 
townships. All Ontario was agog. People 
stared at Jerry, and then at the prisoner. 
" Stokes is looking out for him ! " they 
chuckled in their satisfaction. "He's got 
no chance. He'll never get off. The 
hangman's in waiting ! " 

The suspected man took his place in the 
dock. Jerry Stokes glanced across at him 
— rubbed his eyes — thought it curious. 
44 Well, I never saw a murderer like him in 
my born days afore/' Jerry philosophised 
to himself. " I've turned off square dozens 
of 'em in my time, in the province ; and 
I know their looks. But hanged if I've 
come across a murderer yet like this one, 
any way ! " 

u Richard Ogilvy, stand up : are you 
guilty or not guilty ? " asked the clerk of 

And the prisoner, leaning forward, in a 
very low voice, but clear and distinct, 
answered out, " Not Guilty ! " 

He was a tall and delicate pale-faced man, 
with thoughtful grey eyes and a high 
white forehead. But to Jerry Stokes' ex- 
perienced gaze all that counted for nothing. 
He knew his patients well enough to know 
there are murderers and murderers — the 
refined and educated as well as the coarse 
and brutal. Why, he'd turned off square 
dozens of them, and both sorts, too, 
equally. No ; it wasn't that — and he 
couldn't say what it was — but as Richard 
Ogilvy answered " Not Guilty " that morn- 
ing a thrill ran cold down the hangman's 
back. He was sure it was true : he felt 
intuitively certain of it. 
- From that moment forth, Jerry followed 
the evidence with the closest interest. He 
leaned forward in his place, and drank it 
all in anxiously. People who sat near him 
remarked that his conduct was disgusting. 
He was thirsting for a conviction. It was 
ghastly to see the hangman so intent upon 
his prey. He seemed to hang on the lips 
of the witnesses for tjie prosecution. 

But Jerry himself sat on, all unconscious 
of their criticism. For the very first time 
in his life, he forgot his trade. He remem- 
bered only that a human soul was at stake 
that day, and that in one glimpse of intui- 
tion he had seen its innocence. 

Counsel for the Crown piled up a 
cumulative case, very strong and conclusive 
against the man Ogilvy. They showed 
that the prisoner bad lived on bad terms 
with his wife — though through whose fault 
they had lived so, whether his or hers, 

Digitized by v^OOQ IC 

wasn't very apparent. They showed that 
scenes had lately occurred between them. 
They showed that Ogilvy had bought 
poison at a chemist's in Kingston on the 
usual plea, " to get rid of the rats. n They 
showed that Mrs. Ogilvy had died of such 
poison. Their principal witness was the 
Napanee doctor, a man named Wade, who 
attended the deceased in her fatal illness. 
This doctor was intelligent, and frank, and 
straightforward ; he gave his evidence in 
the most admirable style — evidence that 
told dead against the prisoner in every way. 
At the close of the case for the Crown, the 
game was up : everybody in court said all 
was finished : impossible for Ogilvy to 
rebut such a mass of damning evidence. 

Everybody in court — except Jerry Stokes. 
And Jerry Stokes went home— for it was a 
two days' trial — much concerned in soul 
about. Richard Ogilvy. 

It was something new for Jerry Stokes, 
this disinterested interest in an accused 
criminal ; and it took hold of him with all 
the binding and compelling force of a novel 
emotion. He wrestled and strained with 
it. All night long he lay awake, and 
tossed and turned on his bed, and thought 
of Richard Ogilvy's pale white face, as he 
stood there, a picture of mute agony, in the 
court-house. Strange thoughts surged up 
thick in Jerry Stokes* soul, that had surged 
up in no other soul among all those actively 
hostile spectators. The silent suffering in 
the man's grey eyes had stirred him deeply. 
A thousand times over, Jerry said ,to him- 
self, as he tossed and turned, " That man 
never done it." Now and again he dozed 
off, and awoke with a start, and each time 
he woke he found himself muttering in 
his sleep, with all the profound force of un- 
reasoned conviction, " He never done it ! 
he never done it ! " 

Next morning, as soon as the court was 
open, Jerry Stokes was in his place again, 
craning his bull-neck eagerly. All day 
long he craned that bull-neck and listened. 
The public was scandalised now. Jerry 
Stokes in court ! Jerry Stokes scenting 
blood ! He ought to have kept away ! This 
was really atrocious ! 

Evidence for the defence hung fire sadly. 
To say the truth, Ogilvy's counsel had no 
defence at all to offer, except an assurance 
that he didn't do it. They confined them- 
selves to suggesting a possible alternative 
here, and a possible alternative there.. Mrs. 
Ogilvy might have taken the rat-poison by 
mistake ; or this person might have given 




it her somehow unawares, or that person 
might have had some unknown grudge 
against her. Jerry Stokes sat and listened 
with a sickening heart. The man in the 
dock was innocent, he felt sure ; but the 
case — why, the case was going dead against 
him ! 

Slowly, as he listened, an idea began to 
break in upon Jerry Stokes 1 mind. Ideas 
didn't often come his way. He was a 
thickheaded man, little given to theories, 
and he didn't know even now it was a 
theory he was forming. He only knew 
this was the way the case impressed him. 
The prisoner at the bar had never done it. 


But there had been scenes in his house — 
scenes brought about by Mrs* Ogilvy 1 * con- 
duct. Mrs* Ogilvy, he felt confident from 
the evidence he heard, had been given to 
drink — perhaps to other tilings ; and the 
prisoner, for his child's sake (he had one 
little girl of three vcars old), was anxious to 
screen his wife's shame from the public. 
So he had suggested but little in this di fic- 
tion to his counsel. The scene-, however, 
were not of his making and he certain ly 
never meant to poison the woman, Jerry 
Stokes watched him closely as each witness 
stood up and told his tale, and he was con- 
fident of so much. That twitching of the 
lips was no murderer's trick, It was the 


plain emotion of an honest man who sees 
the circumstances unaccountably turning 
against him, 

There was another person in court who 
watched the case almost as closely as Jerry 
himself, and that person was the doctor 
who attended Mrs, Ogilvy and made the 
post-mortem. His steely grey eyes were 
fixed with a frank stare on each witness as 
he dt tailed his story ; and from time to 
time he gave a little satisfied gasp, when 
anything went obviously against the prison- 
er's chances. Jerry was too much occupied, 
however, for the most part, in watching the 
man in the dock to have any time left for 
watching the doctor. Once 
only he raised his eye> 
and caught the other's, it 
was at a critical moment. 
A witness for the defence, 
under severe cross-exami- 
nation, had just admitted 
a most damaging fact that 
told hard against Ogilvy. 
Then the doctor smiled. Ii 
was a sinister smile, a 
smile of malice, a smile 
of mute triumph. No one 
else noticed it, But Jerry 
Stokes, looking up, 
observed it with a start, 
A shade passed over his 
square face like a sudden 
cloud. He knew that 
smile well. It was a 
typical murderer's, 

lj Mind you,' 1 Jerry said 
to himself, as he watched 
the smile die away, " I 
don't pretend to be as 
smart a chap as all these 
crack lawyer fellows, but 
I'm a straight man in 
my way, and I know my business. If 
that doctor ain't got a murderer's face 
on his front, my name isn't Jeremiah 
Stokes ; that's the long and the short of it." 
He looked hard at the prisoner, lie 
looked hard at the doctor. The longer and 
harder he looked, the more was he sure of 
it. He was an expert in murderers, and he 
knew his men, Ogilvy hadn't done it ; 
Ogilvy couldn't do it ; the doctor might ; 
the doctor was, at any rate, a potential 
murderer. Not that Jerry put it to him- 
self quite so fine as that ; he contented 
himself with saying in his own dialect, 
i% The doctor was one of 'em." 

Evidence, ho wevcir, wtnt all against the 



30 % 

prisoner, and the judge, to Jerry's immense 
surprise, summed up upon nothing except 
the evidence. Nobody in court , indeed, 
seemed to think of anything else, Jerry 
rubbed his eyes once more. He couldn't 
understand it. Why, they were going to 
hang the man on 
nothing at all but 
the paltry evidence ! 
Professional as he 
was, it surprised 
him to find a man 
could swing on so 
tittle ! To think 
that our lives should 
depend on such a 
thread ! Just the 
gossip of nurses and 
the tittle-tattle of 
a doctor with a 
smile like a mur- 
derer's ! 

At last the jury 
retired to consider 
their verdict. But 
they were not long 
gone. The case, 
said everybody, was 
as clear as daylight. 
In the public 
opinion it was a 
foregone conclusion . 
Jerry stood aghast at 

that. What ! hang a man merely because 
they thought he'd done it! And with a 
face like his ! Why, it was sheer injustice ! 

The jury returned. The prisoner stood 
in the dock, now pale and hopeless. Only 
one man in court seemed to feel the slight- 
est interest in the delivery of the verdict. 
And that one man was the public hangman. 
Everybody else knew precisely how the case 
would go. But Jerry Stokes still refused 
to believe any jury in Canada could per- 
petrate such an act of flagrant injustice. 

u Gentlemen of the jury, do you find the 
prisoner r Richard Ogilvy, Guilty or Not 
Guilty of wilful murder f* 1 

There was a slight rhetorical pause. 
Then the answer rang out, in quietly solemn 
tones : 4i We find him Guilty. That is the 
verdict of all of us." 

Jerry Stokes held his breath. This was 
appalling, awful ! The man was innocent. 
But by virtue of his office he would have 
to hang him ! 


If anybody had told Jerry Stokes the week 
Digitized byV^OOQJlC 


before that he possessed an ample, unex^ 
hausted fund of natural enthusiasm, Jerry 
Stokes would have looked upon him as only 
fit for Hat wood Asylum. He was a solid> 
stolid, thick-headed man, was Jerry, who 
honestly believed in the importance of his 

office, and hanged 
men as respectably 
as he would have 
slaughtered oxen. 
But that incredible 
verdict s as it seemed 
to him, begot in 
him suddenly a 
fierce * out burst of 
^eal which was all 
the more violent be- 
cause of its utter 
novelty. For the 
first time in his life 
he woke up to the 
enthusiasm of 
humanity. You'll 
often find it so in 
very phlegmatic 
men ; it takes a 
great deal to stir 
their stagnant 
depths ; but let 
them once be 
aroused, and the 
storm is terrible, 
the fire within 
them burns bright with a warmth and 
light which astonishes everybody* For 
days the look on Richard Ogi Ivy's face, 
when he heard that false verdict returned 
against him, haunted the hangman's 
brain every hour of the twenty -four. 
He lay awake on his bed and shud- 
dered to think of it. Come what might, 
that man must never be hanged. And, 
please heaven, Jerry added, they should 
never hang him. 

The sentence, Canadian fashion, was for 
six clear weeks. And at the end of that 
time, unless anything should turn up mean- 
while to prevent it t it would be Jerry's 
duty to hang the man he believed to be 

For all those years, Jerry had stolidly 
and soberly hanged whomever he was bid, 
taking it for granted the law was always in 
the right, and that the men on whom he 
operated were invariably malefactors. But 
now, a great horror possessed his soul. The 
revulsion was terrible. This one gross mis- 
carriage of justice, as it seemed to him, 
raised doubtft]jfife|tfhc ^atne time in his 




startled soul as to the rightfulness of all his 
previous hangings. Had he been in the 
habit of doing innocent men to death for 
years ? Was the law,. then, always so pain- 
fully fallible ? Could it go wrong in all the 
dignity of its unsullied ermine? Jerry 
could hang the guilty without one pang of 
remorse. But to hang the innocent ! — he 
drew himself up ; that was altogether a 
different matter. 

Yet what could he do? A petition? 
Impossible ! Never within his memory 
could Jerry recollect so perfect a unanimity 
of public opinion in favour of a sentence. 
A petition was useless, Xot a soul would 
sign it. Everybody was satisfied. Let 
Ogilvy swing ! The very women would 
have lynched the man if they could have 
caught him at the first. And now that he 
was to be hanged, thev were heartily glad^ 
of it. 

Still, there \* nothing to spur a man on in 
a hopeless cause like the feeling that you 
*tand alone and unaided, 
jerry Stokes saw all the 
world was for hanging 
Ogilvy — with the strange 
and solitary exception 
of the public hangman. 
And what did the public 
hangman's opinion count 
in >uch a case ? As 
Jerry Stokes well knew, 
rather less than nothing. 

Day after day wore 
a way, and the papers 
were full of "the convict 
Ogilvy/' Would 
he confess, or 
would he not ? 
that was now the 
question. Every 
second night the 
Toronto papers 
had a special 
edition with a 
"Rumoured Con- 
fession of the 
Napance Mur- 
derer," and every 
second morning 

they had a telegram direct from Kingston 
jail to contradict it. Xot a doubt seemed to 
remain with anybody as to the convict V 
guilt. But the papers reiterated daily the 
same familiar phrase, il Ogilvy persists to 
the cud in maintaining his innocence.'' 

Jerry had read these words a hundred 
times before, about other prisoners, with a 



J-*-^" "'■ 


gentle smile of cynical incredulity ; he read 
them now with blank amazement and 
horror at the callousness of a world which 
could hang an innocent man without appeal 
or inquiry, 

Time ran on* and the eve of the execution 
arrived at last. Something must be done : 
and Jerry did it, That night he sat long 
in his room by himself, in the unwonted 
throes of literary composition. He was 
writing a letter — a letter of unusual length 
and surprising earnestness. It cost him dear, 
that epistle : with his dictionary by his side, 
he stopped many times to think, and bit his 
penholder to fibre. But he wrote none the 
less with fiery indignation, and in a fever of 
moral zeal that positively astonished himself. 
Then he copied it out clean on a separate 
sheet, and folded the letter when done, with 
a prayer in his heart. It was a prayer for 
mercy on a condemned criminal — by ihe 
public hangman, 

After that he sluck a stamp on with 

trembling fingers, 
and posted it 
himself at the 
main office. 

All that night 
long Jerry lay 
awake a n d 
thought about 
the execution. 
As a rule , execu- 
tions troubled his 
rest very little. 
But then, he had 
never before had 
to hang an inno- 
cent man — at 
least he hoped 
not— though his 
Faith in the law 
had received a 
severe shock, and 
he trembled to 
think now what 
judicial murders 
he might have 
helped in his time 
unconsciously to 
Next morning early, at the appointed 
hour, Jerry Stokes presented himself at 
Kingston jail. The sheriff was there, and 
the chaplain, and the prisoner, Ogilvy 
looked at him hard with a shrinking look of 
horror, Jerry had seen that look, too, a 
hundred times before, and disregarded ii 
utterly: it wi|^j^ji^y|f^s n \iatural objection 




of a condemned criminal to the constitu- 
tional officer appointed to operate on him. 
But this time it cut the man to the very 
quick. That an innocent fellow-creature 
should regard him like that was indeed 
unendurable, especially when he, the 
public hangman, was the only soul on earth 
who believed in his innocence ! 

expectation- u No reprieve hasn't come 
yet," he answered, in a stolid way ; " but 
I'm expecting one presently. I've done my 
duty all my life, sheriff, I tell you, and Til 
do it uow, I ain't a-going to hang this 
man at all— because I know he's innocent/ 1 
The prisoner gasped, and turned round 
to him in amaze, w Yes, Vm innocent ! " 


The chaplain stood forward and read the 
usual prayers. The condemned man re- 
peated them after him in a faltering voice. 
As he finished, the sheriff turned with a 
grave face to Jerry. *' Do your duty," he 
said. And Jerry stared at him stolidly, 

"Sheriff," he began at last, after a very 
long pause, bracing himself up for an effort, 
11 I've done my duty all my life till this, and 
I'll do it now, There ain't going to be no 
execution at all here this morning ! " 

The sheriff ga^ed at him astonished. 

11 What do you mean, Stokes ? ,f he asked, 
taken aback at this sudden turn. " No 
reprieve has come. The prisoner is to be 
hanged without fail to-day in accordance 
with his sentence. It says so in the warrant : 
4 wherein fail not at your peril, 1 " 

Jerry looked round him with an air of 

he said slowly, looking him over from head 
to foot; " but you — how do you know 
it? 1 * 

u I know it by your face," Jerry answered 
sturdily ; " and I know by the other one's 
face it was him that did it. + * 

The sheriff looked on in puzzled wonder- 
ment. This was a hitch in the proceedings 
he had never expected. " Your conduct is 
most irregular, Stokes/' he said at last, 
stroking his chin in his embarrassment ; 
(l most irregular and disconcerting. If you 
had a conscientious scruple against hanging 
the prisoner, you should have told us before. 
Then we might have arranged for some 
other executioner to serve in your place. 
As it is, the delay is most unseemly and 
painful : especially for the prisoner. Your 
action can only ceiu^c him unnecessary 



3 o6 


suspense. Sooner or later this morning, 
somebody must hang him/' 

But Jerry only looked back at him with 
an approving nod. The sheriff had supplied 
him, all inarticulate that he was, with suit- 
able speech. il Ah t that's just it, don't you 
see," he made answer promptly, " it's a 
conscientious scruple. That's why I won't 
hang him. No man can't be expected to 
go agin his conscience. I never hanged an 
innocent man yet — least- 
ways not to my knowledge ; 
and s'help me 
heaven, I won't 
hang one now, 
not for the Queen 
nor for nobody ! " 

The s h c r i AT 
paused, T h e 
sheriff delibera- 
ted. "What on 
earth am I to 
do ? tT he ex- 
claimed, in de- 
spair. " If you 
won't hang him, 
how on earth at 
this hour can I 
secure a substi- 
tute ? * T 

Jerry stared at 
him stolidly once 
more, after his 
wont. "If /don't 
hang him, 11 he 
answered, with 
the air of one 
who knows his 
ground well," it's 
yot/r business to do it with 
your own hands. * Where- 
in fail not at your peril/ And I 
give you warning beforehand, 
sheriff, if you do hang him — why, 
you'll have to remember all your 
life long that you helped to get 
rid of an innocent man, when 
the common hangman refused to execute 
him I ,T 

To such a pitch of indignation was he 
roused by events that he said it plump out, 
just so, H the common hangman/' Rather 
than let his last appeal lack aught of effec- 
tiveness in the cause of justice, he consented 
so to endorse the public condemnation of 
his own respectable, useful, and necessary 
calling ! 

There was a pause of a few minutes, 
during which the sheriff once more halted 

and hesitated ; the prisoner looked around 
with a pale and terrified air ; and Jerry 
kept his eye fixed hard on the gate, like 
one who really expects a reprieve or a 

li Then you absolutely refuse? 1 * the 
sheriff asked at last t in a despairing sort 
of way. 

11 1 absolutely refuse,*' Jerry answered, in 
a very decided tone. But it was clear he 
was beginning to grow anxious and nervous. 
11 In that case/ 1 the sheriff replied, turn- 
ing round to the 
jailor, LS I must 
put off this execu- 
tion for half an 
hour, till I can 
get someone else 
to come in and 
assist me. 1 * 

Hardly had he 
spoken the words, 
however, when a 
policeman ap- 
peared at the door 
of the court- 
yard, and in a 
very hurried 
voice asked 
eagerly to be 
admitted. Hia 
manner was that 
of a man who 
brings important 
news, "The 
execution's not over, 
sir ? Tl he said, turning 
to the sheriff with a 
very sea red face. "Well, 
thank heaven for that ! 
Dr. Wade's outside, 
and he says, for God's 
sake, he must speak at 
once with you," 

The sheriff hesitated. 
He hardly knew what 
to do. " Bring him 
in," he said at last, after a solemn pause, 
" He may have something to tell us that 
will help us out of this difficulty, 1 ' 

The condemned man, thus momentarily 
respited on the very brink of the grave, 
stood by with a terrible look of awed 
suspense upon his bloodless face. But 
Jerry Stokes' lips bore an expression of 
quiet triumph. He had succeeded in 
his attempt, then. He had brought his 
man to book. That was something to be 
proud of,QFjPt|pral ftenihful done it ! He 


*UE 1VAS palf asp haocahp. 



had saved the innocent and exposed the 
guilty ! 

As they stood there and pondered, each 
man in silence, on his own private thoughts, 
the policeman returned, bringing with him 
the doctor whose evidence had weighed 
most against Ogilvy at the trial. Jerry 
Stokes started to see the marvellous altera- 
tion in the fellow's face. He was pale and 
haggard ; his lips were parched ; and his 
eyes had a sunken and hollow look wiih 
remorse and horror. Cold sweat stood on 
his brow. His mouth twitched horribly. 
It was clear he had just passed through a 
terrible crisis. 

He turned first to Jerry. His lips were 
bloodless, and trembled as he spoke ; his 
throat was dry ; but in a husky voice he 
still managed to deliver himself of the 
speech that haunted him. " Your letter 
did it,'' he said slowly, fixing his eyes on 
the hangman ; " I couldn't stand that. It 
broke me down utterly. All night long I 
lay awake and knew 1 had sent him to the 
gallows in my place. It was terrible — ter- 
rible ! But I wouldn't give way : I'd made 
up my mind, and I meant to pull through 
with it. Then the morning came — the 
morning of the execution, and with it 
your letter. Till that moment I thought 
nobody knew but myself. I wasn't even 
suspected. When I saw /oh knew, I could 
stand it no longer. You said : { If you let 
this innocent man swing in your place, I, 
the common hangman, will refuse to exe- 
cute him. If he dies, I'll avenge him. I'll 
hound you to your grave. I'll follow up 
clues till I've brought your crime home to 
you. Don't commit two murders instead 
of one. It'll do you no good, and be worse 
in the end for you.' When I read those 
words — those terrible words ! — from the 
common hangman/ Ah, heaven ! ' Ithought, 
4 1 need try to conceal it no longer.' All's 
up now. I've come to confess. Thank 
heaven I'm in time ! Sheriff, let this man 
go. It was I who poisoned her ! " 

There was a dead silence again for several 
seconds. Jerry Stokes was the first of 
them all to break it. " I knew it," he said 
solemnly. " I was sure of it. I could have 
sworn to it." 

" And I am sure of it, too," the con- 
demned man put in, with tremulous lips. 
" I was sure it was he ; but how on earth 
was I to prove it ? " 

The sheriff looked about him at all three 
in turn, " Well," he said deliberately, 

tizcxlby vsOOQLC 

with a sigh of relief, " I must telegraph for 
instructions to Ottawa immediately. Pri- 
soner, you are not reprieved ; but under 
these peculiar circumstances, as Dr. Wade 
makes a voluntary confession of having 
committed the crime himself, 1 defer the 
execution for the present on my own re- 
sponsibility. Jailer, I remit Mr. Ogilvy 
to the cells till further instructions arrive 
from the Viceroy. Policeman, take charge 
of Dr. Wade, who gives himself into cus- 
tudy for the murder of Mrs. Ogilvy. 
Stokes, perhaps you did right after alL Ten 
minutes' delay made all the difference. If 
you'd consented to hang the prisoner at 
first, this confession might only have come 
after all was over." 

The doctor turned to Jerry, with the 
wan ghost of a grim smile upon his wor* 
and pallid face. The marks of a great 
struggle were still visible in every line. 
" And you won't be baulked of your fee, 
after all," he added, with a ghastly effort 
at cynical calmness ; " for you'll have me to 
hang before you have seen the end of this 

But Jerry shook his head. " I ain't so 
sure about that," he said, scratching his 
thick, bullet poll, and holding his great 
square neck a little on one side. " I ain't 
so sure of my trade as I used to be once, 
sheriff and gentlemen. I always used to 
hold it was a useful, a respectable, and a 
necessary trade, and of benefit to the com- 
munity. But I've began to doubt it. If 
the law can string up an innocent man like 
this, and no appeal, except for the exertions 
of the public executioner, why, I've began 
to doubt the expediency, so to speak, of 
capital punishment. I ain't so certain as I 
was about the usefulness of hanging. Dr. 
Wade, I think somebody else may have the 
turning of you off. Mr. Ogilvy, I'm 
glad, sir, it was me that had the hanging of 
you. An onscrupulous man might ha' gene 
for his fee. I couldn't do that : I gone for 
justice. Give me your hand, sir. Thank 
you. You needn't be ashamed of shaking 
hands once in a way with a public func- 
tionary — especially when it's for the last 
time in his official career. Sheriff, I've had 
enough of this 'ere work for life. I go back 
to the lumbering trade, I resign my 

It was a great speech for Jerry — an ora- 
torical effort. But a prouder or happier 
man there wasn't in Kingston that day than 
Jeremiah Stokes, late public executioner, 
V-m 1 q 1 n d 1 Trorn 


The Piece of Gold. 

From the French of Francois CoppfeF. 

[Fran^dts Coppice, who was horn tn January, 184:, is known chiefly as a poet, and is, indeed, considered 
by some critics as the greatest poel now alive in France. For many years he acted as librarian to the Senate, 
bul since 1H78 he has held the pom of Keeper of the Records at the Com edie- Franchise, at which theatre 
several of his plays have been produced. Elis poems have gained for him the glory of the Legion of Honour ; 
but his shon prose tales are full of the same tine qualities which are conspicuous in his verse* J 

HEN LucienHem saw his last 
hundred- franc note gripped 
by the bank-keeper's rake, 
and rose from the roulette- 
table, where he had lost the 
last fragments of his little 

fortune, collected for this supreme struggle, 

he felt giddy T and thought he 

was going to fall 

■ With dizzy head and tottering 

legs, he went and threw himself 

down upon the broad leathern 

settee surrounding the play- 

- For some minutes he gazed 

vacantly on the clandestine 

gambling-house in which he 

had squandered 

the best years of 

his youth ; recog- 
nised the ravaged 

faces of the gamb- 
lers, crudely lit 

by the three large 

shaded lamps ; 

listened to the 

light jingle of gold on the 

cloth -covered table ; felt 

that he was ruined, tost ; 

recollected that he had at 

home the pair of regulation 

pistols which his father, 

General Hem, then a simple 

captain, had used so well in 

the attack of Zaatcha ; then, 

overcome by fatigue, he sank 

into a profound sleep. 

When he arose, with a 

clammy mouth, he saw by 

the clock that he had slept 

for barely half an hour, and 

felt an imperious need for 

breathing the night air. The clock-hands 

marked a quarter before midnight. While 

rising and stretching his arms, Lucien 

remembered that it was Christmas Eve, 




and, by an ironic trick of memory, he saw 
himself a little child, putting its shoes into 
the chimney before going to bed. 

At that moment old Dronski — a pillar of 
the gaming house, the classic Pole, wearing 
the threadbare hooded woollen cloak, orna- 
mented all over with grease stains— ap- 
proached Lucien, and muttered a few words 

in his grizzled 
beard : M Lend 
me a five-franc 
piece, monsieur. 
It's now two days 
since I have 
stirred out of the 
club, and for two 
days the 'seven- 
teen ' has never 
turned up. 
Laugh at me, if 
you like, but 1*11 
suffer my hand to 
be cut off if that 
number does not 
turn up on the 
stroke of mid- 

Lucien Hem 
shrugged his 
shoulders, He 
had not even 
enough in his 
pocket to meet 
this Lax, which 
the frequenters of 
the place called 
"The Pole's 
hundred sous." 
He passed into 
the antechamber, 
took his hat and 
1 ijf felt giddy." fur coat, and 

descended the 
stairs with feverish rapidity. 

Since fouT o'clock, when Lucien had shut 
himself up in the gaming-house, snow had 
fallen heavily, and the street — a street in the 
Original from 



centre uf Paris, very narrow, and built 
with high houses 011 cither side — was 
completely white. 

In the calm sky, blue-black, the cold 
stars glittered. f 

The ruined gambler shuddered under his 
furs t and walked away, his mind still 
teeming with thoughts of despair, and more 
than ever turning to the remembrance of 
the box of pistols which awaited him in 
one of his drawers ; but after moving for- 
ward a few steps, he stopped suddenly 
before a heart- wringing sight. 

On a stone bench, placed according to 
old custom near the monumental door of a 
mansion , a little girl of six or seven years 
of age, dressed in a ragged black frock, was 
sitting in the snow. She was sleeping, in 
spite of the cruel cold, in an attitude of 
frightful fatigue and exhaustion : her poor 
little head and tiny shoulder pressed as if 
they had sunk into an angle of the wall, 
and reposing on the icy stone. One of her 
wooden shoes had fallen from her foot, 
which hung helplessly and lugubriously 
before her. 

With a mechanical ges- 
ture, Lueien put his hand to 
his waistcoat pocket, but a 
moment afterwards he recol- 
lected that he had not been 
able to find even a forgotten 
piece of twenty-sous, and 
had been obliged to leave 
the club without giving the 
customary " tip T? to the club 
attendant ; yet, moved by 
an instinctive feeling of pity, 
he approached the little girl, 
and might, perhaps, have 
taken her in his arms and 
given her a night's lodging, 
when in the wooden shoe 
which had slipped from her 
foot he saw something 

He stooped : it was a gold coin. 

misfortune, some confidence and some hope 
in the goodness of Providence. 

A gold piece ! It was several days of rest 
and riches for the beggar, and Lueien was 
on the point of waking her to tell her this, 
when he heard near his ear, as in an hallu- 
cination, a voice — the voice of the Pole, with 
its coarse drawling accent, almost whisper- 
ing : " It's now two days since I stirred out of 
the club, and for two days the * seventeen T 
has never turned up ; I'll suffer my hand 
to be cut off, if that number does not turn 
up on the stroke 
of midnight." 1 . fj> 

^X \ , _ , ijl 

HE iruLE THE £JOLI> I ] LCE FKuM Till; 


Some charitable 

person, doubtless some 
lady, had passed by, had seen on this 
Christmas night the little wooden shoe 
lying in front of the sleeping child, and, 
recalling the touching legend, had placed 
there, with a secret hand, a magnificent 
offering, so that this poor abandoned one 
niight believe in presents made for the 
infant Saviour, and preserve, in spite of her 

Then this young man of three- and- 
twenty, descended from a race of honest 
men, who bore a proud military name, and 
who had never swerved from the path of 
honour, conceived a frightful idea ; he was 
seized with a mad, hysterical, monstrous 
desire, After glancing on all sides, to make 
sure that he was alone in the deserted 
street, he bent his knee, and carefully out* 
stretching his trembling hand, he stole the 
gold piece from the fallen shoe I 

Hurrying then, with all his speed, he 
returned to the gambling-house, scaled the 





stairs two and three at a stride, and enter- 
ing the accursed play-room as the first stroke 
of midnight was sounding, placed the piece 
of gold on the green cloth t and cried : — 
11 1 stake on the seventeen ! H 
The seventeen won. 

With a turn of the hand Lucien pushed 
the thirty-six louis on to the "red." 
The Li red M won. 

He left the seventy-two louis on the same 
colour ; the "red M again won. 

Twice he u doubled '' — three times — 

always with the 
* same success* He 

had now before 
him a pile of gold 
and notes, and 

began to scatter stakes all over the board ; 
the ** dozen, 51 the " column/' the " number/' 
all the combinations succeeded with him. 
His luck was unheard of, supernatural* It 
might have been imagined that the little 
ivory ball dancing in the roulette was mag- 
netised, fascinated by the eyes of this player 
and obedient to him. In a dozen stakes he 
had recovered the few wretched thousand- 
franc notes, his last resources, which he had 
lost at the beginning of the evening. 
Now, punting with two or three hundred 

Digitized by <L>< 

louis at a time, and aided by his fantastic 
vein of luck, he was on the way to regain- 
ing, and more besides, the hereditary capital 
he had squandered in so few years 3 and 
reconstituting his fortune. 

In his eagerness to return to the gaining* 
table, he had not taken off his fur coat. 
Already he had crammed the large pockets 
with bundles of notes and rouleaux of gold 
pieces ; and, not knowing where to heap his 
winnings, he now loaded the inner and 
exterior pockets of li is frock-coat, the pockets 
of his waistcoat and trousers, his cigar-case, 
his handkerchief— everything that could be 
made to hold his money. 

And still he played, and still he iron, like 
a madman, like a drunken man! And he 
threw handfuls of louis on to the " pic- 
ture/' at hazard, with a gesture of certainty 
and disdain ! 

Only something like a 
red-hot iron was in his 
heart, and he thought of 
nothing but of the little 
mendicant sleeping in the 
snow whom he had robbed, 
" Is she still at the same 
spot! Surely she must be 
still there ! Presently — 
yes, when one o'clock 
strikes— I swear it ! I will 
quit this place. I will take 
her sleeping in my arms 
and carry her to my home j 
I will put her into my warm 
bed ; I will bring her up, 
give her a dowry, love her 
as if she were my own 
daughter, care for her 
always, always ! M 


But the clock struck one, 
and then a quarter, and 
then a half, and then three- 
And Lucien was still seated at the infer- 
nal table. 

At length, one minute before two o'clock, 
the keeper of the bank rose abruptly, and 
said in a loud voice : 

"The bank is broken, gentlemen — 
enough for to-day. Tt 

With a bound Lucien was on his feet, 
Roughly pushing aside the gamblers who 
surrounded him and regarded him with 
envious admiration, he hurried away 
quickly, sprang down the stairs and ran all 




the way to the stone bench. In the dis- 
tance, by the light of a lamp, he saw the 
little girh 

M God be praised ! ,p he said ; 4 * she is still 
there. 1 ' 

He approached her t he took her hands. 

u Oh ! how cold she is, poor little one ! " 

He took her under the arms and raised 
her, so that he might carry her ; her head 
fell back without her awaking. 

"How soundly children of her age sleep !" 

He pressed her against his bosom to warm 
her, and, seized by a vague inquietude, and, 
with a view to rousing her out of this heavy 
slumber, he kissed her eyelids. 

Then it was that he perceived with terror 
that these eyelids were half open> showing 
half the eyeballs— glassy, lightless, motion- 
less. Upon his brain flashed a horrible sus- 
picion- He placed his mouth close to that 
of the little girl ; no breath came from it. 

While with the gold piece which he had 
stolen from this mendicant, Lucicu had won 
a fortune at the gaming table, the homeless 
child had died— died of cold ! 


Skized by the throat by the most fright- 
ful of agonies, Lucien tried to utter a cry, 

and, in the effort which he made, awoke 
from his nightmare on the club settee, on 
which he had gone to sleep a little before 
midnight, and where the attendant who had 
quitted the house last had left him out of 

The misty dawn of a December morning 
was greying the window-panes. 

Lucien went out into the street, pledged 
his watch, took a bath, breakfasted, and 
then went to the recruiting-ofliee, and signed 
an engagement as volunteer in the 1st 
Regiment of Chasseurs d'Afrique. 

At the present time Lucien Hem is a 
lieutenant ; he has only his pay to live 
upon, but he contrives to make it suffice, 
being a very steady officer and never touch- 
ing a card. It appears even that he has 
found the means of saving, for the other 
day. at Algiers, one of his comrades who 
was following him, at a few paces distant, 
in one of the hilly streets of the Ka&ba, saw 
him give something in charity to a little 
6piiiii>li girl sleeping in a doorway, and had 
the indiscretion to see what it was that 
Lucien had given to the child. 

Great was his surprise at the poor lieu- 
tenant's generosity. 

Lucien Hem had put into the hand of 
the poor child a piece of g<jld! 

by Google 

Original from 

The Voice of Science. 

RS. ESDAILE, of the Lin- 
den?, Birch espool, was a lady 
erf quite remarkable scientific 
attainments. As honorary 
secretary of the ladies' 
branch of the local Eclectic 
Society, she shone with a never-failing 
brilliance. It was even whispered that on 
the occasion of the delivery of Professor 
Tomlinson's suggestive lecture " On the 
Perigenesis of the Flastidule " J she was the 
only woman in the room who could follow 
the lecturer even as far as the end of his 
title. In the seclusion of the Lindens she 
supported Darwin, laughed at Mivart, 
doubted Haeckel, and shook her head at 
Weissman, with a familiarity which made 
her the admiration of the University pro- 
fessors and the terror of the few students 
who ventured to cross her learned but 
hospitable threshold, Mrs. Esdaiie had, of 
course, detractors. It is the privilege of 
exceptional merit. There were bitter 
feminine whispers as to the cramming from 
encyclopaedias and text-books which pre- 
ceded each learned meeting, and as to the 
care with which in her own house the con- 
versation was artfully confined lo those 
particular chan- 
nels with which 
the hostess was 
familiar. Tales 
there were, too, uf 
brilliant speeches 
written out in 
some masculine 
hand, which had 
been committed 
to memory by the 
ambitious lady, 
and had after- 
wards flashed out 
as extempore elu- 
cidations of some 
dark, half ^ex- 
plored corner of 
modern science. 
1 It was even said 
that these little 
blocks of infor- 
mation got jum- 
bled up occasionally in their bearer's mind, 
scj that after an entomological lecture she 
would burst into a geological harangue, or 
vice versa, to the great confusion of her 



audience. So ran the gossip of the malicious, 
but those who knew her best were agreed 
that she was a very charming and clever 
little person. 

It would have been a strange thing had 
Mrs. Esdaiie not been popular among local 
scientists, for her pretty house, her charm- 
ing grounds, and all the hospitality which 
an income of two thousand a year will 
admit of, were always at their command. 
On her pleasant lawns in the summer, 
and round her drawing-room fire in the 
winter, there was much high talk of mi- 
crobes, and leucocytes, and sterilised bac- 
teria, where thin, ascetic materialists from 
the University upheld the importance of 
this life against round, comfortable cham- 
pions of orthodoxy from the Cathedral 
Close. And in trie heat of thrust and 
parry , when scientific proof ran full tilt 
against inflexible faith, a word from the 
clever widow, or an opportune rattle over 
the keys by her pretty daughter Rose, 
would "bring all back to narmony once 
Rose Esdaiie had just passed her twentieth 
year, and was looked upon as one of the 
beauties of Birchespool. Her face was, 

perhaps, a trifle 
long for perfect 
symmetry, but 
her eyes were 
fine, her expres- 
sion kindly, and 
her complexion 
beautiful. It was 
an open secret, 
too, that she had 
under her father's 
will five hundred 
a year in her own 
right, With such 
advantages a far 
plainer girl than 
Rose Esdaiie 
might create a 
stir in the society 
of a provincial 

A scientific 
conversazione in 
a private house is an onerous thing to 
organise, yet mother and daughter had nut 
shrunk from the task. On the morning 
of which I,>ffi^na|tftOTn&at together sur- 




veying their accomplished labours, with 
the pleasant feeling that nothing remained 
to be done save to receive the congratu- 
lations of their friends. With the assist- 
ance of Rupert, the son of the house, 
they had assembled from all parts of 
Birchespool objects of scientific interest, 
which now adorned the long tables in 
the drawing-room. Indeed, the full tide 
of curiosities of every sort which had 
swelled into the house had overflowed the 
rooms devoted to the meeting, and had 
surged down the broad stairs to invade the 
dining-room and the passage. The whole 
villa had become a museum. Specimens 
of the flora and fauna of the Philippine 
Islands, a ten-foot turtle carapace froih the 
Gallapagos, the os frontis of the Bos montis 
as shot by Captain Charles Beesly in the 
Thibetan Himalayas, the bacillus of Koch 
cultivated on gelatine — these and a thou- 
sand other such trophies adorned the tables 
upon which the two ladies gazed that 

44 You've really managed it splendidly, 
ma," said the young lady, craning her neck 
up to give her mother a congratulatory 
kiss. u It was so brave of you to under- 
take it." 

44 I think that it will do," purred Mrs. 
Esdaile complacently. " But I do hope that 
the phonograph will work without a hitch. 
You know at the last meeting of the British 
Association I got Professor Standerton to 
repeat into it his remarks on the life history 
of the Medusiform Gonophore." 

44 How funny it seems," exclaimed Rose, 
glancing at the square box-like apparatus, 
which stood in the post of honour on the 
central table, " to think that this wood and 
metal will begin to speak just like a human 

41 Hardly that, dear. Of course the poor 
thing can say nothing except what is said 
to it. You always know exactly what is 
coming. But I do hope that it will work 
all right." 

44 Rupert will see to it when he comes up 
from the garden. He understands all about 
them. Oh, ma, I feel so nervous." 

Mrs. Esdaile looked anxiously down at 
her daughter, and passed her hand caress- 
ingly over her rich brown hair. u I under- 
stand," she said, in her soothing, cooing 
voice, i{ I understand." 

44 He will expect an answer to-night, 

44 Follow your heart, child. I am sure 
that I have every confidence in your good 

sense and discretion. I would not dictate 
to you upon such a matter." 

41 You are so good, ma. Of course, as 
Rupert says, we really know very little of 
Charles — of Captain Beesly. But then, 
ma, all that we do know is in his favour." 

44 Quite so, dear. He is musical, and 
well-informed, and good-humoured, and 
certainly extremely handsome. It is clear, 
too, from what he says, that he has moved 
in the very highest circles." 

44 The best in India, ma. He was an inti- 
mate friend of the Governor-General's. You 
heard yourself what he said yesterday about 
the D'Arcies, and Lady Gwendoline Fair- 
fax, and Lord Montague Grosvendr." 

44 Well, dear," said Mrs. Esdaile resign- 
edly, " you are old enough to know your 
own mind. I shall not attempt to dictate 
to you. I own that my own hopes were 
set upon Professor Stares." 

44 Oh, ma, think how dreadfully ugly 
he is." 

14 But think of his reputation, dear. 
Little more than thirty, and a member of 
the Royal Society. 

44 1 couldn't, ma. I don't think I could, 
if there was not another man in the world. 
But, oh, I do feel so nervous ; for you can't 
think how earnest he is. I must give him 
an answer to-night. But they will be here 
in an hour. Don't you think that we had 
better go to our rooms ? " 

The twolacfies had risen, when there came 
a quick masculine step upon the stairs, and 
a brisk young fellow, with curly black 
hair, dashed into the room. 

44 All ready ? " he asked, running his eyes 
over the lines of relic-strewn tables. 

44 All ready, dear," answered his mother. 

44 Oh, I am glad to catch you together," 
said he, with his hands buried deeply in his 
trouser pockets, and an uneasy expression 
on his face. 4i There's one thing that I 
wanted to speak to you about. Look here, 
Rosie ; a bit of fun is all very well ; but you 
wouldn't be such a little donkey to think 
seriously of this fellow Beesly ? " 

44 My dear Rupert, do try to be a little 
less abrupt," said Mrs. Esdaile, with a de- 
precating hand outstretched. 

44 1 can't help seeing how they have been 
thrown together. I don't want to be unkind, 
Rosie ; but I can't stand by and see you 
wreck your life for a man who has nothing 
to recommend him but his eyes and his 
moustache. Do be a sensible girl, Rosie, 
and have nothing to say to him." 

44 It is surely a point, Rupert, upon which 




I am more fitted to decide than vou can be,** 
remarked Mrs. Esdaile, with dignity. 

'• No, mater, fur I have been able to make 
some inquiries, Young Cheffington, of the 
Gunners, knew him in India. He says — ,J 

But his sister broke in upon his revela- 
tions. u I won't stay here, ma, to hear him 

self for having said too much or for not 
having said enough. 

Just in front of him stood the table on 
which the phonograph, with wires, batteries, 
and all complete, stood ready for the guests 
whom it was to amuse. Slowly his hands 
emerged from his pockets as his eye fell 


slandered behind his back/ 1 she cried, with 
spirit. "He has never said anything that 
was not kind of you, Rupert, and I don't 
know why you should attack him so. It is 
cruel, im brotherly." With a sweep and a 
whisk the was at the door f her cheek 
flushed, her eyes sparkling, her bosom 
heaving with this little spurt of indigna- 
tion, while close at her heels walked her 
mother with soothing words, and an angry 
glance thrown back over her shoulder. 
Rupert Ksdaile stood with his hands bur- 
rowing deeper and deeper into his pockets, 
and his shoulders rising higher and higher 
to his ears, feeling intensely guilty, and yel 
not certain whether he should blame him- 

Digitized by OOOglC 

upon the apparatus, and with languid 
curiosity he completed the connection, and 
started the machine. A pompous, husky 
sound, as of a man clearing his throat pro- 
ceeded from the instrument, and then in 
high, piping tones, thin but distinct, the 
commencement of the celebrated scientist's 
lecture. iL Of all the interesting problems," 
remarked the box, (i which are offered to 
us by recent researches into the lower 
orders of marine life, there is none to 
exceed the retrograde metamorphosis which 
characterises the common barnacle, The 
differentiation of an amorphous protoplas- 
mic mass—" Here Rupert Esdaile broke 
the coni]ecUqpj l -ag^i^. l jf^ the funny little 







tinkling voice ceased as suddenly as it 

The young man stood smiling, looking 
down at this garrulous piece of wood and 
metal, when suddenly the smile broadened, 
and a light of mischief danced up into his 
eyes. He slapped his thigh, and danced 
round in the ecstasy of one who has 
stumbled on a brand-new brilliant idea. 
Very carefully he drew forth the slips of 
metal which recorded the learned Profes- 
sor's remarks, and laid them aside for future 
use. Into the slots he thrust virgin plates, 
all ready to receive an impression, and then, 
bearing the phonograph under his arm, he 
vanished into his own sanctum. Five 
minutes before the first guests had ar- 
rived the machine was back upon the 
table, and all ready for use. 

There could be no question of the suc- 
cess of Mrs. EsdaQe*s conversazione. From 
first to last everything went admirably. 
People stared 
through micro- 
scopes , and linked 
hands for electric 
shocks, and mar- 
velled at the Gal- 
lapagos turtle, 
the os front is of 
the Bos montis, 
and all the other 
curiosities which 
Mrs. Esdaile had 
taken such pains 
to collect. Groups 
formed and chat- 
ted round the 
various cases. 
The Dean of Bir- 
chespool listened 
with a protest- 
ing lip, while 
Professor Maun- 
ders held forth 
upon a square of 
triassic rock, with 
side-thrusts occa- 
sionally at the 
six days of ortho- 
dox creation ; a 
knot of specialists 
disputed over a 
stuffed ornitho- 
rhynchus in a 
corner ; while 
Mrs. Esdaile 
swept from group 
to group, intro- 

ducing, congratulating, laughing, with the 
ready T graceful tact of a clever woman 
of the world* By the window sat the 
heavily* moustached Captain Beeslv, with 
the daughter of the house, and they 
di>eussed a problem of their own, as old as 
the triassk rock, and perhaps as little 

"But I must really go and help my 
mother to entertain, Captain Beesly/' said 
Ko^e at last, with a little movement as if 
to rise. 

11 Don't go. Rose. And don't call me 
Captain Beesly ; call me Charles. Do, 
now ! » 

" Well, then, Charles. " 

" How prettily it sounds from your lips ! 
No, now, don't go. I can't bear to be 
away from you. I had heard of love, 
Rose ; but how strange it seems that I, 
after spending my life amid all that is 
sparkling and gay, should only find out 

\ ^ - 





Call n$ flyorlrs . j2)GTp* . 

Original from 



now, in this little provincial town> what 
love really is ! ,? 

41 You say so ; but it is only a parsing 

! fancy. 5T 

4» a No, indeed. I shall never leave you r 
Rose — never, unless you drive me away 
from your side. And you would not be 
so cruel — you would not break my heart ? '* 
He had very plaintive, blue eyes, and 
there was such a depth of sorrow in them 
as he spoke that Rose could have wept for 

" It will amuse you immensely. And I 
am sure thai, you would never guess what. 
it is going to talk about/' 

M What then ? " 

"Oh, I won't tell you. You shall hear. 
Let us have these chairs by the open door ; 
it is so nice and cool," 

The company had formed an expectant 
circle round the instrument. There was a 
subdued hash as Rupert Esdaile made the 
connection, while his mother waved her 
white hand slowly from left to right to 

"I should be very sorry 
grief in any way/' she said, 

" Then promise '' 

" No 


cause you 
a faltering 

, no ; we cannot speak 
and they are collecting 
phonograph Do come and listen to it, 
so funny. Have you ever heard one ? 
" Never: 1 

of it just 

round the 

It is 

by Google 

mark the cadence of the sonorous address 
which was to break upon their ears. 

u How about Lucy Araminta Penny- 
feather ? " cried a squeaky little voice. There 
was a rustle and a titter among the audi- 
ence. Rupert glanced across at Captain 
Beesly, He saw a drooping jaw, two 
protruding eyes, and a face the colour of 
cheese. Original from 




► r 

"How about little Martha Hovedean of 
the Kensal Choir Union ? " cried the piping 

Louder still rose the titters. Mrs, 
Esdaile stared about her in bewilderment. 
Rose burst out laughing, and the Captain's 
jaw drooped lower still, with a tinge of green 
upon the cheese- like face. 

" Who was it who hid the ace in the 
artillery card-room at Peshawur ? Who 
was it who was broke inconsequence ? Who 
was it- ? ft 

M Good gracious ! " cried Mrs, Esdaile, 
u what nonsense is this ? The machine is 
out of order. Stop it, Rupert. These are 
not the Professor's remarks. But, dear 
me, where is our friend Captain Beesly 
gone ? Tl 

M I am afraid that he is not very well, 


Rose. ( * He rushed out of the 


" There can't be much the matter," quoth 
Rupert. ik There he goes, cutting down 
the avenue as fast as his legs will carry him, 
I do not think, somehow, that we shall see 
the Captain again. But I must really 
apologise, I have put in the wrong slips. 
These, I fancy, are those which belong to 
Professor Standerton's lecture." 

Rose Esdaile has become Rose Stares 
now, and her husband is one of the most 
rising scientists in the provinces- No doubt 
she is proud of his intellect and of his 
growing fame, but there are times when 
she still gives a thought to the blue-eyed 
Captain, and marvels at the strange and 
sudden manner in which he deserted her. 

by Google 

Original from 


From the French of Alfred de Musset, 

[Alfred de Mltsset was born in the middle of old Paris, in the year i£io. Mussel is the Bjtoji of the 
French ; bin at the age when Byron was playing crirket in the grounds of Harrow, Alfred and his brother 
Paul were paring day and night over old romances, and dressing themselves up as knights and robbers, to 
represent the characters of whom they read. At nineteen he began to write, and, unlike Byron, his first book 
of poems was a complete success, At twenty -three he went to Italy, in the capacity of George Sand's private 
secretary p fell passionately in Love with her, was jilted, and returned home broken-hearted. This, however, did 
not prevent him from falling in love, and out again t like Byron, at constant intervals throughout his life, and 
celebrating the event in verses infinitely sweet and bitter, From Louis Philippe, who had been his school- 
fellow, he received the post of Librarian to the Minister o[ the Interior, which, however, he lost at the 
Revolution of 1848. In 1S52 he was elecied to the French Academy ; but, though only forty-two, his health 
was already breaking; [.ike Byron* who loved to write at midnight with a glass of gin*and- water at his 
elbow, Musset used to prime himself with draughts of the still deadlier absinthe, lie sank, and died in May, 
1857, leaving the greatest name of all French poets except Victor Hugo, and a reputation as a writer of prose 
stories which may be very fairly estimated by the specimen which follows — the charming Httle story of 
ifc Camilla 1 '] 

■ f 

1 ^ii 1 * 


HE Chevalier des Arcis was a 
cavalry officer who, having 
quitted the service in 
1760, while stilt young, re- 
tired to a country house n^ar 
Mans, Shortly after, he 
married the daughter of a retired merchant 
who lived in the neighbourhood , and this 
marriage appeared for a time to be an 
exceedingly happy one. C&ile's relatives 
were worthy folk who, enriched by meaiis 
of hard work, were now, in their latter 
years, enjoying a continual Sunday. The 
Chevalier, weary of the artificial manners 
of Versailles, entered gladly into their 
simple pleasures. C£cile had an excellent 
uncle, named Giraud, who had been a 
master-bricklayer, but had lisen by degrees 
to the position of architect, and now owned 
considerable property. The Chevalier's 
house (which was named Chardonneux) 
was much to Giraud's taste, and he was 
there a frequent and ever welcome visitor. 
By and by a lovely little girl was born to 
the Chevalier and Cecile, and great at first 
was the jubilation of the parents. But a 
painful shock was in store for them. They 
soon made the terrible discovery that their 
little Camille was deaf, and, consequently, 
also dumb ! 

The mother's first thought was of cure, 
but this hope was reluctantly abandoned ; 
no cure could be found. At the time of 
which we are writing, there existed a piti- 

by L^OOgle 

less prejudice against those poor creatures 
whom we style deaf mutes. A few noble 
spirits, it is true, had protested against this 
barbarity. A Spanish monk of the six- 
teenth century was the first to devise 
means of teaching the dumb to speak with- 
out words — a thing until then deemed 
impossible. His example had been fol- 
lowed at different times in Italy, England, 
and France, by Bonnet, Wallis, Bulwer, 
and Van Helmont, and a little good had 
been done here and there. Still, however, 
even at Paris, deaf mutes were generally 
regarded as beings set apart, marked with 
the brand of Divine displeasure. Deprived 
of speech, the power of thought was denied 
them, and they inspired more horror than 

A dark shadow crept over the happiness 
of Camille's parents, A sudden, silent 
estrangement — worse than divorce, crueller 
than death — grew up between them, For 
the mother passionately loved her afflicted 
child, while the Chevalier, despite all the 
efforts prompted by his kind heart, could 
not overcome the repugnance with which 
her affliction affected him. 

The mother spoke to her child by signs, 
and she alone could make herself under- 
stood. Every other inmate of the house, 
even her father, was a stranger to Camille, 
The mother of Madame des Arcis — a 
woman of no tact — -never ceased to deplore 
loudly the misfortune that had befallen her 
daughter and son-in-law. u Better that she 
had never been born I " she exclaimed one 

Original from 






"What would you have done, then, had 
/been thus ? " asked Cecile indignantly. 

To Uncle Giraud his great-niece's dumb- 
ness seemed* no *uch tremendous misfortune, 
" I have had," said he T " such a talkative 
wife that I regard everything else as a less 
evil. This little woman will never speak 
or hear bad words, never aggravate the 
whole household by humming opera airs, 

cheered by Uncle Giraud's bright talk. But 
the cloud soon re- descended upon them. 


I\ course of time the little girl grew into 
a big one. Nature completed successfully, 
but faithfully, her task* The Chevalier r s 
feelings towards Camille had, unfortunately, 
undergone no change. Her mother still 


will never quarrel, never awake when her 
husband coughs, or rises early to look after 
his workmen. She will see clearly, for 
the deaf have good eyes. She will be pretty 
and intelligent, and make no noise. Were 
I young, I would like to marry her ; 
being old, I will adopt her as my daughter 
whenever you are tired of her/' 
For *i moment the sad parents were 

watched over her tenderly, and never left 
her, observing anxiously her slightest actions, 
her every sign of interest in life. 

When Camtlle's young friends were of an 
age to receive the first instructions of a 
governess, the poor child began to realise 
the difference between herself and other?. 
The child of a neighbour had a severe go- 
verness- CarrifllejTcjrho was present 




day at a spelling-lesson, regarded her little 
comrade with surprise, following her efforts 
with her eyes, seeking, as it were, to aid her, 
and crying when she was scolded. Espe- 
cially were the music- lessons puzzling to 

The evening prayers, which the neigh- 
bour used regularly with her children, were 
another enigma for the girl. She knelt 
with her friends, and joined her hands with- 
out knowing wherefore. The Chevalier 
considered this a profanation ; not so his 
wife. As Camille advanced in age, she be- 
came possessed of a passion — as it were by 
a holy instinct — for the churches which she 
beheld. " When I was a child I saw not 
God, I saw only the sky," is the saying of a 
deaf mute. A religious procession, a coarse, 
gaudily bedizened image of the Virgin, a 
choir boy in a shabby surplice, whose voice 
was all unheard by Camille — who knows 
what simple means will serve to raise the 
eyes of a child ? And what matters it, so 
long as the eyes are raised ? 


Camille was petite, with a white skin, and 
long black hair, and graceful movements. 
She was swift to understand her mother's 
wishes, prompt to obey them. So much 
grace and beauty, joined to so much 
misfortune, were most disturbing to the 
Chevalier. He would frequently embrace 
the girl in an excited manner, exclaiming 
aloud : 4t I am riot yet a wicked man ! " 

At the end of the garden there was a 
wooded walk, to which the Chevalier was in 
the habit of betaking himself after breakfast. 
From her chamber window Madame des 
Arcis often watched him wistfully as he 
walked to and fro beneath the trees. One 
morning, with palpitating heart, she ven- 
tured to join him. She wished to take 
Camille to a juvenile ball which was to be 
held that evening at a neighbouring man- 
sion. She longed to observe the effect 
which her daughter's beauty would produce 
upon the outside world and upon her 
hnsband. She had passed a sleepless night 
in devising Camille's toilette, and she 
cherished the sweetest hopes. u It must be," 
she told herself, " that he will be proud, and 
the rest jealous of the poor little one ! She 
will say nothing, but she will be the most 
beautiful ! " 

The Chevalier welcomed his wife gra- 
ciously — quite in the manner of Versailles ! 
Their conversation commenced with the 

Digitized by CiOOQ IC 

exchange of a few insignificant sentences as 
they walked side by side. Then a silence 
fell between them, while Madame des Arcis 
sought fitting words in which to approach 
her husband on the subject of Camille, and 
induce him to break his resolution that the 
child should never see the w ? orld. Mean- 
while, the Chevalier was also in cogitation. 
He was the first to speak. He informed his 
wife that urgent family affairs called him to 
Holland, and that he ought to start not 
later than the following morning. 

Madame understood his true motive only 
too easily. The Chevalier was far from 
contemplating the desertion of his wife, yet 
felt an irresistible desire, a compelling need 
of temporary isolation. In almost all true 
sorrow, man has this craving for solitude — 
suffering animals have it also. 

His wife raised no objection to his pro- 
ject, but fresh grief wrung her heart. Com- 
plaining of weariness, she sank upon a seat. 
There she remained for a long time, lost in 
sad reverie. She rose at length, put her 
arm into that of her husband, and they 
returned together to the house. 

The poor lady spent the afternoon 
quietly and prayerfully in her own room. 
In the evening, towards eight o'clock, she 
rang her bell, and ordered the horse to be 
put into the carriage. At the same time 
she sent word to the Chevalier that she 
intended going to the ball, and hoped that 
he would accompany her. 

An embroidered robe of white muslin, 
small shoes of white satin, a necklace of 
American beads, a coronet of violets — such 
was the simple costume of Camille, who, 
when her mother had dressed her, jumped 
for joy. As Madame was embracing her 
child with the words, " You are beautiful ! 
you are beautiful ! " the Chevalier joined 
them. He gave his hand to his wife, and 
the three went to the ball. 

As it was Camille's first appearance in 
public, she naturally excited a great deal 
of curiosity. The Chevalier suffered 
visibly. When his friends praised to him 
the beauty of his daughter, he felt that 
they intended to console him, and such 
consolation was not to his taste. Yet he 
could not wholly suppress some emotion of 
pride and joy. His feelings were strangely 
mixed. After having saluted by gestures 
almost everybody in the room, Camille was 
now resting by her mother's side. The 
general admiration grew more enthusiastic. 
Nothing, in fact, could have been more 
lovely tn^n the envelope which held this 





poor dumb soul. Her figure , her face, her 
long, curling hair, above all, her eyes of 
incomparable lustre, surprised everyone. 
Her wistful looks and graceful gestures, too, 
were so pathetic. People crowded around 
Madame des Arris, asking a thousand ques- 
tions about Camille ; to surprise and a slight 
coldness succeeded sincere kindliness and 
sympathy. They had never seen such a 
charming child ; nothing resembled her, for 
there existed nothing else so charming as she ! 
Camflle was a complete success. 

Always outwardly calm, Madame des 
Arcis tasted to-night the most pure and in- 
tense pleasure of her life. A smile that was 
exchanged between her and her husband 
was well worth many tears. 

Presently, as the Chevalier was still 
gazing at his daughter, a country-dance 
began, which Camille watched with an 

earnest attention that had in it something 
sad. A boy invited her to join. For answer, 
she shook her head, causing some of the 
violets to fall out of her coronet. Her 
mother picked them up, and soon put to 
rights the coiffure, which was her own 
handiwork. Then she looked round for 
her husband, but he was no longer in the 
room. She inquired if he had left, and 
whether he had taken the carriage. She 
was told that he had gone home on foot. 

The Chevalier had resolved to leave home 
without taking leave of his wife. He 
shrank from all discussion and explanation, 
and, as he intended to return in a short 
time, he believed that he should act more 



verbal farewell. There was so/tit* truth in 
his statement of that business affair calling 
him a way j although business was not his 
first consideration And now one of his 
friends had written to hasten his departure. 
Here was a good excuse. On returning 
alone to his house (by a much shorter route 
than that taken by the carriage), he an- 
nounced his intention to the servants, 
packed in great haste, sent his light luggage 
on to the town, mounted his horse, and 
was gone. 

Yet a- certain misgiving troubled him, 
for he knew that his Cecil e would be pained 
by his abrupt departure, although he en- 
deavoured to persuade himself that he did 
this fur her sake no less than for his own. 
However, he continued on his way* 

Meanwhile* Madame des' Arcis was 
returning in the carriage, with her daughter 

been much rain for nearly a month pait, 
causing the river to overflow its banks, 
The ferryman refused at first to take the 
carriage into his boat ; he would undertake, 
he said, to convey the passenger* and the 
horse safely across, but not the vehicle. 
The lady, anxious to rejoin her husband, 
would not descend. She ordered the 
coachman to enter the boat ; it was only a 
transit of a few minutes, which she had 
made a hundred times. 

In mid-stream the boat was forced by the 
current from its straight course. The boat- 
man asked the coachman's aid in keeping 
it away from the weir. For there was not 
far off a mill with a weir, where the 
violence of the water had formed a sort of 
cascade. It was clear that if the boat 
drifted to this spot there would be a terrible 


asleep upon her knee. She felt hurt at the 
Chevalier's rudeness in leaving them to 
return alone. It seemed such a public 
slight upon his wife and child ! Sad fore^ 
boding^ filled the mother's heart as the 
carriage jolted slowly over the stones of a 
newly-made road. "God watches over 
all," she reflected ; 4 * over us as over others, 
But what shall we do ? What will become 
of my poor child ? " 

At some distance from Chardonneux 
there was a ford to be crossed. There had 

Digitized by W 

The coachman descended from his seat, 
and worked with a wilL But he had only 
a pole to work with, the night was dark, a 
fine rain blinded the men, and soon the 
noise of the weir announced the most im- 
minent danger. Madame des Arcis, who 
had remained in the carriage, opened the 
window in alarm. *' Are we then lost ? " 
cried she. At that moment the pole broke. 
The two men fell into the boat exhausted, 
and with bruised hands. 

The fer,f^Mfl a pfij^J^l n swim, but not the 




coachman- There was no time to lose, 
11 Pere Georgeot," *aid Madame to the 
ferryman, calling him by his name f *'can 
you save my daughter and myself? " 

*' Certainly I " he replied, as if almost 
insulted by the question. 

11 What must we do? pt inquired Madame 
des Arris, 

u Place yourself upon my shoulders/' 
replied the ferryman, u and put your arms 
about my neck. As for the little one, I 
will hold her in one hand, and swim with 
the other, and she shall not get drowned. 
It is but a short distance from here to the 
potatoes which grow in yonder field/ 1 

"And Jean?* 1 asked Madame, meaning 
the coachman, 

" Jean will be all right, I hope. If he 
holds on at the weir, I will return for 

Ptre Georgeot struck out with bis double 
burden,, but he had over-estimated hh 
powers* He was no longer young. The 
shore was farther off, the current stronger 
than he had thought. He struggled man- 
fully, but was nearly swept away. Then the 
trunk of a willow, hidden by the water and 
the darkness, stopped him suddenly with a 
violent blow upon the forehead. Blood 
flowed from the wound and obscured his 

" Could you save my child if you had 
only her to convey ? ** asked the mother. 

" I cannot tell, but I think so/' said the 

The mother removed her arms from the 
man's neckj and let herself slip gently into 
the water, 

When the ferryman had deposited Camille 
safely on terra tirma^ the coachman, who 
had been rescued by a peasant, helped hi in 
to search for the body of Madame des Arcis, 
It was found on the following morning, near 
the bank. 

Camilla's grief at her mother's loss was 
terrible to witness. She ran hither and 
thither, uttering wild, inarticulate cries, 
tearing her hair, and beating the walls. 
An unnatural calm succeeded these violent 
emotions ; .reason itself seemed well-nigh 

It was then that Uncle Giraud came to 
his niece's rescue, M Poor child ! " said he, 
u she has at present neither father nor 
mother. With me she has always been a 
favourite p and I intend now to take chargu 
of her for a time. Change of scene," said 
Uncle Giraud, " would do her a world of 
good/' With the Chevalier's permission 
(obtained by letter), he carried off Camille 
to Paris. The Chevalier returned to 
Chardonneux, where he lived in deepest 
retirement, shunning every living being, a 
prey to grief and keen remorse. 

A year passed heavily away. Uncle 
Giraud had as yet failed utterly to rouse 
Camille. She steadily refused to be in- 



- I 


"Ceftrl ~T*£ i**"F "f 

" -H£ LXASXD *.»>£« THE EDGE OF THE W^X-" 

say to her ; — '* We -peak, and you cannot ; 
we hear, laugh, ^ing f rejoice. You rejoice 
in nothing hear nothing. You are only a 
statue, the simulacrum of a being* a mere 
looker-on at life.' 1 

When, to exclude the mocking spectacle, 
she ctosed her eyes, the scenes of her early 
life rose before the eyes of her mind- She 
returned in thought to her country home, 
saw again her mother's* dear face. It was 
too much ! Uncle fiiraud observed, with 
much concern, tear trolling down her cheeks 
When he would have inquired the cause of 
her grief, she made higns that she wished to 


t she wish 


deeply stirred. She had already observed 
that this young man 1 * lips did not move. 
She now saw that he spoke a language 
which was not the language of others, that 
he had found some means of expressing 
himself without the aid of speech — that art 
for her so incomprehensible and impossible. 
An irresistible longing to see more seized her. 
She leaned over the edge of the box, and 
watched the stranger's movements atten- 
tively* When he again wrote something 
upon his slate, and passed it to his com- 
panion, she made an in voluntary gesture as 
if to takQff a j| Whereupon the young man, 




in his turn, looked at Camilla. Their eyes 
met t and said the same thing, " We two arc 
in like case ; we are both dumb." 

Uncle Giraud brought his niece's wrap, 
but she no longer wished to go. She had 
reseated herself, and was leaning eagerly 

The Abb£ de l'Epee was then just 
becoming known. 
Touched with pity 
for the deaf and 
dumb, this good 
man had invented 
a language that he 
deemed superior to 
that of Leibnitz. He 
restored deaf mutes 
to the ranks of their 
fellows by teaching 
them' to read and 
write. Alone and 
unaided he laboured 
for hi* afflicted fel- 
low-creatures, pre- 
pared to sacrifice lo 
their welfare his life 
and fortune. 

The young man 
ubserved by Camille 
was one of the 
Abbe's first pupils. 
He was the son of 
l he Marquis de 


It goes without 

saying that neither 

Camille nor her 

uncle knew any* 

thing either of the 

Abbe de l'Epee, or 

of his new method. 

Camille's mother 

would assuredly 

have discovered it T 

had she lived long 

enough. But Char- 

donneuxwas far from Paris ; the Chevalier 

did not take The Gazette, nor, if he had 

taken it, wouid he have read It. Thus a 

few leagues of distance, a little indolence, 

or death, may produce the same result. 

Upon Camille T s return from the opera, 
she was possessed with but one idea. She 
made her uncle understand that she wished 
fur writing material*. Although the good 
man wanted his supper, he ran tu his 

chamber, and returned with a piece of 
board and a morsel of chalk, relics of his 
old love for building and carpentry. 

Camille placed the board upon her knee, 
then made signs to her uncle that he should 
sit by her and write something upon it. 
Laying his hand gently upon the girl's 
breast, he wrote, in large letters, her name, 

Camille, after which, 
well satisfied with 
the evening's work, 
he seated himself at 
the supper -table, 

Camille retired as 
soon as possible to 
her own room, clasp- 
ing her board in her 
arms. Having laid 
aside some of her 
finery, and let down 
her hair, she began 
to copy with great 
pains and care the 
word which her 
uncle had written. 
After writing it 
many times, she 
succeeded in form- 
ing the letters very 
fairly. What that 
word represented tu 
her, who shall say? 
It was a glorious 
night of July. 
Camille had opened 
her window, and 
from time to time 
paused in her self- 
imposed task to gaze 
out, although the 
was but a 
one. The 
in which 
were kept, 
five huge 

u view" 
a yard 
Four or 


carnages stood side 
by side beneath a 
shed. Two or three 
others stood in the centre of the yard, as 
if awaiting the horses which could be heard 
kicking in the stable. The court was shut 
in by a closed door and high walls, 

Suddenly Camille perceived, beneath the 
shadow of a heavy diligence, a human 
form [lacing to and fro. A feeling of fear 
seized her. The man was gazing intently 
at her window. In a few moments Camille 
had regain^! ^Kfafc ours Su* She took her 




lamp in her hand, and, leaning from the 
casement, held it so that its light illumined 
the court. The Marquis de Maubray (for 
it was he), perceiving that he was discovered, 
sank on his knees? and clasped his hands, 
gazing at Camille meanwhile with an 
expression of respectful admiration. Then 
he sprang up, and nimbly clambering over 

the board, and handed it to Uncle Giraud, 
who read with amazement the following 
words : " I love Mademoiselle Camille, and 
wish to marry her. I am the Marquis de 
Maubray ; will you give her to me? " 

The uncle's wrath abated. 

14 Well ! " remarked he to himself, as he 
recognised the youth he had seen at the 


two or three intercepting vehicles, was in a 
few minutes within Camillas room^ where 
his first act was to make her a profound 
bow. He longed for some means of speak- 
ing to her, and j observing upon the table the 
board bearing the written word Camilte^hz 
took the piece of chalk, and proceeded to 
write beside that name his own — Pierre. 

M Who are you ? and what are you doing 
here ? M thundered a wrathful voice, It 
was that of Uncle Giraud, who at that 
moment entered the room, and bestowed 
upon the intruder a torrent of abuse. 
The Marquis calmly wrote something upon 

Digitized by Google 

opera—** for going straight to the point, 
and getting through their business quickly 
I never saw the like of these dumb folk ! " 


Thk course of true love, for once, ran 

smooth. The Chevalier's consent to this 

highly desirable match for his daughter 

was easily obtained. Much more difficult 

wa* it to convince him that it \vz> possible 

to teach deaf mutes to read and write. 

Seeing, however, is believing. One day, 

two or Uirec years aft- er lhc marriage, the 
Original from 




Chevalier received a letter from Carnille, 
which began thus : — tl Oh, father ! I can 
speak, not with my mouth, but with my 

She told him how she had learned to do 
this, and to whom she owed her new-born 
speech — the good Abbe de TEpee, She 
described to him the beauty of her 
baby, and affectionately besought him 
to pay a visit to his daughter and grand- 

After receiving this letter, the Chevalier 
hesitated for a long time. 

a Go, by all means," advised Uncle 
Giraud, when he was consulted, li Do you 
not reproach yourself continually for having 
deserted your wife at the ball ? Will you 
also forsake your child, who longs to see 
you? Let us go together, I consider it 
most ungrateful of her not to have inclu- 
ded me in the invitation. 11 

(4 He is right," reflected the Chevalier. 
M 1 brought cruel and needless suffering 
upon the best of women. I left her to die 
a frightful death, when I ought to have 
been her preserver. If this visit to Carnille 
involves some pain to myself, that is but a 
merited chastisement, I will taste this 
bitter pleasure ; I will go and see my 


In the pretty boudoir of a house in the ' 
Faubourg St, Germain, Camille's father 
and uncle found Carnille and Pierre, Upon 
the table lay books and sketches. The 
husband was reading, the wife embroider- 
ing, the child playing on the carpet. At 
sight of the welcome visitors the Marquis 
rose, while Carnille ran to her father, who t 
as he embraced her tenderly } could not re- 
strain his tears. Then the Chevalier's 
earnest look was bent upon the child. In 
spite of himself, some shadow of the re- 
pugnance he had formerly felt for the in- 
firmity of Carnille stirred afresh at sight of 
this small being who had doubtless in- 
herited that infirmity. 

l< Another mute ! ,? cried he, 

Carnille raised her non to her arms ; 
without hearing she had understood. 
Gently holding out the child towards the 
Chevalier, she placed her fingers upon the 
tiny lips, stroking them a little, as if coax- 
ing them to speak. In a few moments he 
pronounced distinctly the words which his 
mother had caused him to be taught ; — 

" Good morning, papa ! " f 

11 Now you see clearly,' p said Uncle 
Giraud, H that God par dens everything and 
for ever ! 1T 





5T© n e* HReA Ke R5v 

A Story for Children. From the French of Quatkklles. 

[yiJATKEU-K^ real name U Ernest Louis Victor Jules L/Kpinc. He lives at Paris— a grey old gentleman 
of sixty-five, who during ihc gi eater pari of his life bab held a post in the French Government, who wears in 
his button-hole the rosette of the Legion of Honour, and who can do almost anything delightful — whether it 
he to paint a picture, or to compose a piece of music, or (as in the following example) 10 tell a charming little 
story to amube the children- J 

— = — „~ v ^ ^ 

HKRE was once, in Japan, in 
times so far away that the 
learned hardly now dare speak 
of them, a poor little stone- 
breaker who worked on the 

He worked on the highways as long as 
the day lasted, in all weathers, in all seasons, 
in rain, in the burning sunshine, and in 
snow. He was always half dead with 
fatigue and three-quarters dead with hunger ; 
and he was not at all contented with his lot. 
41 Oh ! how I would bless heaven, n he said, 
il if one day 1 became rich enough to sleep 
far into the morning, to eat when I was 
hungry, and drink when I was athirsL I 
am told that there are people so blessed by 
late as always to be gay and full of food. 
Stretched at ease upon thick mats before my 
door, rny back covered with soft silken 
vestments, I would take my afternoon nap, 
wakened every quarter of an hour by a 
servant, who should remind me that I had 
nothing to do, and that I might : sleep with- 
out remorse." 

A passing angel overheard these words^ 
and smiled. 

Be it according to your wish, poor 

man ! n the angel said. 

And, suddenly^ the 

y Google 


Original from 



stone-breaker found himself before the door 
of a splendid dwelling of his own, stretched 
at his ease upon a pile of thick mats and 
dressed in sumptuous garments of silk, 
He was no longer hungry, no longer thirsty, 
no longer tired — all of which appeared to 
htm as agreeable as it was surprising. 

He had feasted for half an hour on these 
unknown enjoyments, when the Mikado 
passed by. The Mikado ! It was a gTeat 
thing to be the Mikado. The Mikado was 
Emperor of Japan, and the Emperor of 
Japan was, especially in those far-off times, 

the unequalled honour of holding above 
his master's head a large umbrella fringed 
all round with tiny jingling bells. 

The enriched stone- breaker followed the 
imperial procession with an eye of envy, 

" Much advanced I am ! " he said to 
himself. H Shall I be happy with the few 
paltry indulgences I am able to give my- 
self ? Why am I not the Mikado ? I could 
then traverse the highways in a splendid 
carriage, in a golden palanquin powdered 
with precious stones, followed by my prime 
minister, under the shade of a great urn- 


the most powerful of all the emperors of 
the East. 

The Mikado was travelling for his 
pleasure, preceded by couriers, surrounded 
by cavaliers more embroidered and belaced 
than the Grand Turk of Turkey, followed 
by famous warriors, escorted by musicians, 
accompanied by the most beautiful women 
in the world, who reclined in howdahs of 
silver borne on the backs of white 

The Mikado lay upon a bed of down 
in a palanquin of fine gold, decked with 
precious stunej. Hi* prime minister had 

Digitized by GOOglC 

brella fringed with jingling bells, while my 
second minister refreshed my visage with 
the waving of a fan of peacocks' feathers. 
Ah, 1 wish I were the Mikado ! " 

11 Be as you wish to be I ? * said the angel. 

And instantly he found himself stretched 
on the down bed of the golden palanquin 
powdered with precious stones, surrounded 
by his ministers, his warriors, his women 
and his slaves, who said to him, in Japanese : 

li Mikado, you are superior to the sun, 
you are eternal, you are invincible. All 
that the mind of man can conceive you can 
execute. Justice itself is subordinate to 




your will, and providence waits on your 

counsels tremblingly/' 

The stone-breaker said to himself : 
"Very good! these people know 

value/ 1 


but how am I to get hold of him to ad- 
minister his punishment ? M 

11 Am I not the equal of the gods ? ?t 

** Assuredly, great Mikado, at least their 
equal/ 1 

11 You told me, just now, that nothing is 
impossible to me. Either you have lied, or 
you resist me, or you have badly executed 
my orders ; I give you five minutes to ex- 
tinguish the sun, or ten to have your head 
chopped off. Go ! " 

The prime minister departed, and did 
not return. 

The exasperated &tone-breaker was purple 
with anger. 

" This is a pretty sort of a dog*s business, 
upon my word, to be emperor, if he has 
to submit to the familiarities, caprices, and 
brutalities of a mere circulating star. It is 
plain that the sun is more powerful than L 
I wish I were the nin." 

" Be it as you wish ! " said the angel. 


The sun, which had been shining very 
ardently for some days, had parched the 
country, The road was dusty, and the 
glare from it fatigued the eyes' of the ap- 
prentice Mikado, who, addressing his 
minister, the bearer of the jingling um- 
brella, said : 

14 Inform the sun that he is incommoding 
me. His familiarities displease me. Tell 
him that the great Kmperor of Japan 
authorises him to retire. Go ! " 

The prime minister confided to a cham- 
berlain the honour of carrying the jingling 
umbrella, and went on his mission. 

He returned almost instantly, his face 
expressing the utmost consternation. 

u Great Emperor, sovereign of gods and 
men, it is inconceivable ! The sun pre- 
tends not to have heard me, and continues 
to burn up the road ! " 

"Let him be chastised." 

" Certaiidy ! such insolence deserves it ; 

Digitized b/ Google 

1 NB VHK 1 1 1 [J SO %l l til If A I N 1 A LL. 

And the little stone-breaker sparkled in 

the highest heavens, radiant, flaming. He 

took pleasure in scorching trees, withering 

their lea\'es, and parking up springs ; in 

Original from 




covering with perspiration the august visages 
of emperors as well as the dusty muzzles of 
the wayside stone-breakers — his companions 
of the morning. 

But a cloud came between the earth and 
him, and the cloud said : 

"Halt, my dear fellow ; you can't come 
this way ! " 

u By the moon, that's too much ! A 
cloud — a poor little misty, bodiless cloud — 
calls me familiarly, l my dear fellow/ and 
bars my way ! Clouds* it is plain t are more 
powerful than I. If I do not become a 
cloud, 1 shall burst with jealousy." 

u Don't burst for so trifling a cause/' said 
the angel T always on the watch, u Be a 
cloud, since you prefer to be so. l? 

Proudly the new cloud planted himself 
between the earth and the resplendent 

Never, in the records of memory, did so 
much rain falL The transformed stone- 
breaker took pleasure in launching rain and 
hail upon the earth, and that in such a 
terrible fashion that the uprooted trees 
found nothing left but mud in which 
to hold on to the ground. Under hi* 

whatever was above the surface of the 

A rock, however, made head against the 
force of the hurricane* In spite of all, it 
remained unmoved. On its granite sides 
the waves broke in frothy showers, the 
waterspouts sank at its feet, and the thunder 
made it laugh every time it burst against 
its unyielding flanks. 

*' I am at the end of my powers ! ■ T said 
the cloud; ''this rock defies me, masters 
me, and fills me with envy." 

** Take its place ! " said the angel, H and 
let us see whether, at last, you are satis- 

The transformed cloud did not yet feel 
at his ease, immovable, inaccessible, in- 
sensible to the burning caresses of the sun 
and to the booming of the thunder, he 
believed himself to be the master of the 
world. But at his feet a sharp hammering 
sound attracted his attention. He stooped 
and beheld a wretched being covered with 
rags, thin and bald, as he had been in the 
time of his deepest poverty, who, with a 
heavy hammer in his hand, was engaged 
in chipping off pieces of the granite for 


aquatic reign of several hours, streams the purpose of mending the neighbouring 

became floods, floods became torrents, road. 

the seas wore confounded with each "What is the meaning of this? 71 cried 

other, and dreadful waterspouts whirled the haughty rock i u a poor wretch — 

in every direction, wringing and destroying wretched aiiiung^ iUic Jiiost wretched — 




mutilating me, and I cannot defend myself \ 
I am profoundly humiliated— reduced to 
envy the lot even of this wretched being I ? ' 

11 Take his place ! T ' said the angel, smiling. 

And the insatiate personage became again 
what he had been before — a poor little stone- 
breaker. As in the past, he worked on the 

highways as long as day lasted, in all 
weathers, in all seasons, in rain, in the 
burning sunshine, and in snow. He was 
always half dead with hunger, three-quar- 
ters dead with fatigue. But that did not 
prevent his being perfectly contented with 
his lot 


by Google 

Original from 

(""rw^nL'' Original from 


Bv Sir Edwin Landseek. 

by Google 

Original from 

Pictures with Histories. 

{ Continued) 

HE frontispiece we are enabled 
to give this month is penned 
in what may be termed 
px;oriaI hieroglyphics by Sir 
Edwin Landseer* The letter 
was addressed to Charles 
George Lewis, the celebrated engraver, 
The first house represented is Lewis's 
residence in Charlotte-street, whilst the 
final sketch is a very correct drawing of 
the artist's house in St. John's Wood -road. 
It remains just in the same state to-day, 
and is occupied by Mr. H. W. B. Davis, 
R.A. This delightfully original missive 
reads — -evidently in response to an invita- 
tion : — 

the artist was in his twenty-third year. 
He set himself to sketch a couple of 
sportsman's cards, of which we give the one 
considered the most picturesque, and best 
calculated to show the preat painter's ver- 
satility and ingenuity. The writing is that 
of the Duke of Bedford, and, to judge by 
the number of hares, rabbits, and pheasants 
bagged, sport at Woburn Abbey during this 
particular week must have been fairly brisk. 
There is -no question as to the genuine 
nature of this veritable curiosity, for on 
the back of it is written the signature — in ink 
almost faded — of Lady Georgiana RusselU 

From our remarks in the previous 
chapter on u Pictures with Histories/' it 








4 "4 *;* 







z 1 


/ft 4 




4 // 



"Dear Charles,— I shall be delighted 
to come to your house, also Maria, William, 
and Henry.— Yours, Neddy Lanijse -:r*" 

The only other occasion on which Land- 
seer departed from his usual routine of work 
seems to be have been when he was on a 
vi<it to the Duke of Bedford at Woburn 
Abbey, in December, 1826, at which time 

Digitized by \j GO 

will be readily gathered that behind nearly 
every canvas which Landseer touched 
some happy incident lies hidden away, 
His magnificent work, il A Distinguished 
Member of the Humane Society, M was 
suggested to him by seeing the noble crea- 
ture which figures in the picture carrying 
a basket of flowers in its mouth. 




(( Lion "-—a picture he painted for 
Mr. AV. H. Merle for ^50 — has its story 
to tell. Landseer particularly wished to 
see the dog— Lion— excited. There chanced 
to bo in the house a live mouse in a trap. 
The mouse was let loose, Lion gave chase, 
and the next instant the mouse had disap- 
peared. There was no accounting for such 
a rapid exit, when somebody suggested 
that possibly Lion had swallowed it. And 
such was the fact ; the poor little mouse 
had found safety in the dog's huge jowls. 
Immediately Lion's lips were opened the 
tiny creature jumped out uninjured and 
made good its escape. 

Lion, being a particularly powerful dog T 
was not easy to play tricks with. On one 
occasion whilst he was walking along the 
bank of a canaL a passing bargeman began 
to poke him with his oar, With a sudden 
rush and a jerk, Lion seized the oar, and 
lifted his tormentor into the water. It is 
interesting to note that Lion's portrait was 
despatched in a heavy case to Paris, just 
at the time of the Revolution, and narrowly 
escaped being used as a barricade. 

Here is another anecdote of one of 
Landseer 1 s pictures. " Beauty's Bath fT was 
a portrait of Miss Eliza Peel, daughter of 
Sir Robert Peel, in which she is shown 

lisher knew, and saw that, if he issued the 
work as "a portrait of Miss Peel/' it would 
ruin the sale. Accordingly, he gave it this 
very taking title, by which it has ever since 
been known. 

One day Sir Robert met the publisher 
and demanded why the title had been 
changed, He was assured that " Beauty V 
Bath ,T was most appropriate. 

il Oh! yes, that's all right/ 1 said Sir 
Robert. " I've no objection to that. Only/' 
he continued thoughtfully, evidently think- 
ing of the pet poodle and his charming 
daughter, u which do you intend for the 
beauty ? " 

11 Well/' replied the publisher merrily, 
li you pay your money and you take your 
choice ! J1 

Landseer loved to have his artistic joke. 
This is excellently seen in the two sketches 
which we reproduce* " Huntsman and 
Hounds " is a little pen-and-ink drawing 
done for Miss Wardrop at the age of 
thirty-four. Miss Wardrop, herself, was fond 
of the pencil and brush, and was particu- 
larly partial to animals. She found no 
small difficulty in drawing accurately a 
horse* s hoofs. One day she went to Land- 
seer and told him frankly of her nou- 
success, at the same time asking him to give 


with a pretty little pet poodle, named Fido, her a hint as to the best way of drawing 

in her arms. At the time the picture was 
engraved and about to be issued to the 
public, Sir Robert was not on the best of 
terms with the populace, This the pub- 

Digitized by Google 

them correct lj\ The artist good-humour- 
edly complied with her request, and showed 
her that it was by no means necessary 
to depict them at all. This he did by 

Original from 




hiding the horse 1 * hoofs in a wealth of grass, 
as shown in the sketch. 

41 The Expectant Dog " is another ex- 
ample of the artist's merry moments. The 
poodle was the property of the Hon, R 
Byng, a distinguished member of the 

Edwin Landseer; for, some time afterwards, 
she met John Landseer, loved and married 
him. In passing t it may be mentioned 
that Sir Joshua is credited with having ex- 
pressed the opinion that if an artist painted 
four or five distinctly origitial subjects in 


Humane Society* and also prominent 
through his connection with the Metro- 
politan Commission of Sewers. Landseer 
was dining with Mr. Byng, when he was 
asked to make a little sketch of Mr. Byng 
himself. This he immediately did by 
drawing that gentleman's favourite dog 
with its head up a sewer in the midst of 
a puddle of water, and a rat making a 
very speedy exit at its approach. The 
eminent Commissioner of Sewers saw the 
joke at once, as did also his friends, and 
for many a long day he was known by the 
nickname of 4i Poodle Byng." 

We now turn to some works by Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, to which a history is 
attached, and, in so doing, there occurs a 
somewhat curious incident, which has the 
interest of connecting two of our greatest 
painters. Sir Joshua's famous picture 
of "The Gleaners " shows one of the 
toilers of the field carrying a bundle of 
wheat on her head. This figure was 
put in, as the lady— Miss Potts— who posed 
as the model for it, happened to be staying 
with her friends the Maeklins where Sir 
Joshua was staying also, Miss Potts was 
destine.! to become the mother of Sir 

Digitized by Ijt 

his lifetime, the achievement should be suffi- 
cient to satisfy the demands of the expectant 
public. Hence he painted no fewer than a 
quartette of " The Strawberry Girl," each 
single picture being as good as the otlu rs t 
though probably the first one painted would 
be preferred for choice. Any of them 
would easily fetch ^2,000 or ^,000 each. 
We have had the privilege of examining 
Sir Joshua's own ledgers, and in 1766 we 
find that he was only receiving £i$Q for a 
whole length portrait, ^7° ' or half- length, 
^50 for a kit cat (56 in. x 25 in.), and 
^30 for a head, Gainsborough received 
about the same figure. 

The recent tragic death of the Duke of 
Bedford suggests to us a picture which Sir 
Joshua painted of i( The Bedford Family " 
—a work worth, at the lowest estimate, 
^~ 10,000. The curious circumstance of 
allowing this valuable painting to be turned 
towards the wall in a darkened room for a 
great number of years is in itself suggestive 
of some unknown story. At last it was 
decided to have the picture renovated, for 
it had become perfectly black. It was 
accordingly sent to be cleaned; but it 
was found impossible to remove the dire 






results which a darkened room and a dusty 
atmosphere had worked upon it. It was then 
suggested that the very opposite means 
should be tried. The canvas was hung in 
a room, the roof of which was of glass, 
Through which the bright sunshine could 
fall upon it. As the week and month 
passed by, the sunlight scattered the 
gloom by' degrees, until, at the end of a 
year, all had disappeared, and the rich 
colour ing was once more visible. One of 
the boys represented in the picture is Lord 
William Russell — the father of the late 
Duke of Bedford— who was killed by his 
valet in 1840. 

A " Sir Joshua " worth £1^000 has been 
thrown out of window during a fire, and 
reached the ground untouched by smoke or 
flame. This was 

Lady Williams Wynu 

zed by G' 

andchildren/* which now hangs at Wynstay. 
A very interesting incident may be told 
to show how minute Sir Joshua was — even 
to a hair. At the sale of his books, there 
was found amongst the leaves a little curl 
wrapped up in a small piece of tissue paper 
on which the artist had written u Lady 
Waldcgrave's hair/ T He had pointed a 
picture of the Countess of Waldegrave and 
her daughter, and* in order to get the exact 
colour of the hair, had persuaded the 
Countess to cut off a lock. It was recently 
beautifully mounted, surrounded by por- 
traits of the pictures connected with it, 
and presented to the late Countess ; and it 
now hangs underneath the original work. 

Can a leopard change its spots ? Yes, so 
far as a pictorial leopard goe? — as may be 
illustrated by a painting by Sir Joshua of 
Original from 



Master Herbert as a Bacchus, He made an 
error here, for he depicted the god of wine 
surrounded by lionesses, when, of course, 
leopards should have figured in the festive 
scene* The engraver in whose hands the 
picture was placed saw the mistake, and 
took it upon himself to add the spots to the 
lionesses, thereby converting them into 
leopards in his engraving, He even went 
further, and painted the necessary spots on 
the animals on the canvas, One hundred 
years passed away, and the picture was sent 
to London to be cleaned and re stored, when, 
to the great dismay of the cleaner, he 
noticed that as he worked the leopards 
began to lose their spots ! Examination 
soon showed what was the reason. All 
the spots were removed, 
the lionesses appeared in 
their proper skins, and so the 
picture now appear?. 

We reproduce two pictures 
by Sir Joshua Reynolds, The 
history of one is as sensational 
as the other is broad ly 
humorous. They happen, 
too, to be the stories of a 
husband and wife. 

Mrs, Musters was a great 
beauty of her day, and in 
(77s Sir Joshua painted her. 
The picture he sent home to 
Mr, Musters to his seat at Col- 
wick. An application was re- 
ceived from the artist that the 
canvas should be returned to 
him, as he desired to make 
one or two important alter- 
ations which would consider- 
ably benefit the picture* It 
was sent back to him, and 
it remained in his possession 
seven years. Time after time 
it was applied for, but all 
to no effect— it was impos- 
sible to get it back ; the 
applicants got nothing but 
excuse after excuse. At last, 
in desperation, Sir Joshua 
declared that he had spoiled 
the "work, and so destroyed it, 
and to make up for this he 
painted another of Mrs. 
Musters in the character of 
Hebe, after a lapse of seven 
years. Where was the 
original picture ? It trans- 
pired that George IV.— then 
Prince of Wales— was at that 

time engaged in making a collection of 
the beauties of his Court, and had often 
asked Mr. Musters to allow his wife to 
sit for her portrait for this purpose. This 
Mr. Musters firmly refused. The Prince 
then brought some pressure to bear on 
Sir Joshua Reynolds to get the picture- 
How Sir Joshua set to work has already, 
been seen. The painting was afterwards sold 
at the Pavilion at Brighton, and was pur- 
chased by the Earl of Egremont of Pet- 
worth, at w r hose seat it now hangs. It. 
should be mentioned that this is the only 
instance on record where Sir Joshua did 
anything to cast a shade upon a char- 
acter which was in every other respect a 
truly honourable one. The pressure which 

by Google 

Original from 



Jie Prince enforced was too great> and he 

Surely nothing can be more humorous 
than the fact of a man having his 
portrait painted, and, as the fashion 
in clothing changed, so having the latest 
thing in satin coat and flowered vest put 
on his figure ! Yet this was actually done, 
and by the husband of the very lady who 
figures prominently in the preceding stoty. 
JMr. Musters was exceptionally eccentric. 
Not content with a picture of himself by Sir 
Joshua, he secured from time to time the 
services of another artist to re-clothe him 
up to date. Some years after his death, the 
canvas was submitted to a well-known 
exuertj when the momentous question 

arose as to how it could possibly be a 
genuine Sir Joshua when the clothing was 
of a date some thirty years after the great 
artist had ceased to exist ? The picture was 
put into the hands of a cleaner, when he, 
almost bewildered, sent a hasty message to 
the expert to say that all the clothes were 
gradually coming off! Part of the coat 
had disappeared j the flowers on the vest 
were fading, the fob of the watch-chain had 
gone. The whole truth was soon made 
evident, and very soon the old, though 
valuable, clothes were all found underneath, 
and Mr, Musters appeared in the proper 
costume of his day as Sir Joshua painted 
him. As such he is to be seen in our 
copy of the engraving from the picture. 

The works of Gainsborough 
are replete with anecdote. 
One incident is worthy of 
being chronicled as asso- 
ciating Sir Joshua Reynolds 
and this great artist together. 
It happened in 1782, when 
the two painters, to put it 
plainly, were not on speaking 
terms. At the Royal Aca- 
dfiOMjt of tbat year Gains^ 
borough exhibited a picture, 
14 Girl and Pigs," Sir Joshua 
was much impressed with it, 
and, as a token of his appre- 
ciation of unquestionable 
genius, and, we venture to 
think, possibly with a view 
to bringing about a renewal 
of friendship, purchased the 
work for 4*100. It would 
bring thousands now. The 
Earl of Carlisle possesses it- 
Gainsborough was generous 
to a high degree. When 
he was at Bath he was 
anxious to paint ()uin t the 
actor t and in return for the 
sitting said that he would 
make him a present of the 
portrait. Quiu refused, Gains- 
borough pleaded with him T 
and made use of these re- 

markable word* 

If you 

by Google 

will let me paint your por- 
trait / shall itvc for cvrr / w 
The actor gave way, but to* 
day the picture preserves the 
j memory of Ouin. On one 
occasion Gainsborough ac- 
^ tually gave half - a - dozen 

Tite' r ffbft a AIr - Wilt * hire ' a 




carrier, who, u solely for the love of art, 11 
volunteered to convey one of his impor- 
tant canvases to London free of charge. 
These pictures were the price paid tor 
the van hire, and two of them now hung 
in the National Gallery — u The Market 
Cart/' and "The Parish Clerk." 

The two next reproductions we give 
have exceptionally singular histories, One 
indeed is a romance of the purest type. 
The fact of his celebrated Duchess of 
Devonshire hav- 
ing been stolen 
has probably had 
much to do with 
making the pub- 
lic regard it as the 
finest thing that 
ever did. But 
art connoisseurs 
say that the 
"Hon. Mrs. Gra- 
ham " is a far 
finer bit of colour- 
ing. It now 
hangs in the 
National Gallery 
of Scotland, and 
its value is put 
down at ^"25,000. 
Here is its his- 
tory — a truly ro- 
mantic one, 

Mrs. Graham 
was the wife of 
Captain Graham, 
who years after- 
%vards became 
General Lord 
She was only 
seventeen when 
her husband com- 
missioned Gains- 
borough to paint 
her. He was 
passionately at- 
tached to his 
beautiful wife, 
their married life 
happiness, and 


was one long day of 
when, at a compara- 
tively early age, she died, her broken- 
hearted husband could not bear even 
to look upon the picture, and it dis- 
appeared. He tried in every way to put an 
end to his life honourably ; but at all times 
failed. He went into the Peninsular War, 
volunteered for every u forlorn hope" in 

by L^OOgle 

the hope of getting killed ; but he seemed 
to bear a charmed life, and rose to be a 
Field ilarshal in the English Army, 
and lived to ninety-one years of age. 
Where was the picture of such fabulous 
value? It was not until after Lord Lyne- 
doch's death that it was discovered in a 
furniture warehouse, where it had been 
packed away in a heavy case and concealed 
trom view for very many years. 

We now come to the picture that was the 

means of bring- 
ing about the 
historical quarrel 
between Gains- 
through and the 
Royal Academy ■ 
;tnd, in onk-r 
that its history 
should be fully 
set forth in these 
pages, the writer 
has searched the 
various news- 
papers of that 
day with a view 
of showing the 
extreme feeling 
that existed, 
Gainsboroug h 
sent a picture of 
the three daugh- 
ters of George 
III, to the Aca- 
demy, with a 
polite request 
that it should be 
hung the same 
distance from the 
ground as it 
would be when 
placed in position 
in the Koyal resi- 
dence. The Aca- 
demy Council ig- 
nored this wish, 
and hung it far 
too high. This so 
enraged Gains- 
borough — who 
was of a somewhat irritable dispoitfon — 
that he sent for all his pictures, and had 
them brought back from the Academy. The 
Mummg Herald <yi May 5, 17*4, says : — 

u Yesterday, the three pictures of the 
Princess Royal, Princess Elizabeth, and 
Princess Augusta were removed from the 
Exhibition Room of Somerset House on 
the Strand to Mr. Gainsborough's at Pall 
Original from 




Mall, aiul from thence are to be fixed as 
furniture at Carlton House/' 

The Morning Herald was, however, 
wrong, there was only one picture, not throe. 

Again, the following extract, which 
appeared in the same paper on May 7, 
1 7^4 t is worthy of being quoted : — 

"Gainsborough, whose professional ab- 
sence every visitor of the Royal Academy 

conduct of the Academy Hangmen, they 
have in the handsomest manner protested 
against the shameful outrage offered by 
these fatal executioners, to genius and taste! 1 ' 
The history of the picture does not end 
here. It remained at Carlton House until 
the building was pulled down, and wa& 
then removed to Buckingham Palace. At 
some subsequent period an unknown indi- 


so feelingly deplores, is fitting up his- own 
saloon in Pall Mall for the display of his 
matchless productions, where he may safely 
exhibit them without furiher offence to the 
Sons of Envy and Dullness. , . , By the 
bye, let it be remembered to the honour of 
Sir Joshua Reynolds and Sir William 
Chambers, that," so far from abetting the 

vidual requiring a picture to fit in a space 
over a door to one of the State Rooms 
positively had it cut down to the required 
size* It is still there. Its value at the 
present moment, had it been left nit- 
touched, would be ^"20,000 ; as it is, it is 
worth about half that sum. Our illustra- 
tion shows the painting as it is to-day. 

by Google 

Original from 

Two Fishers. 

From thk French of Guy dk Maupassant. 

[Hekrt Rkn t k Alitekt Gvv he Maupassant was born on the sih of August in the year 1B50. His 
parent* lived in Normandy, and were people of position ; hut when, in 1870, the wax broke out with Prussia, 
Guy, then just twenty, buckled on his sword and served his country as a common soldier* When the inf avis 
over, he became acquainted with Gustave Flaubert, and the brilliant author of" Sab mm foV' introduced him 
10 the world of letters, in which he quickly won himself a foremost phicc. He is not a very prolific writer, 
but the quality of his work is always fine, and he is one of the best writers of shorl tales now Imng. Fie is 
fond of using hb experience of the war as a basis for his stories— of which "Two Fishers" is an excellent well as of his remarkably artistic style, which tells a story in its full effect without a word loo 
much or little.] 


J3ARIS was blockaded— fam- 
I i shed— at the point of death. 
Even the sparrows on the 
housetops were few and far 
between, and the very sewers 
were in danger of becoming 
depopulated. People ate anything they 
could get. 

Monsieur Morisot, watchmaker by trade, 
\va> walking early one bright January morn- 
ing down the Boulevards, his hands in 

by L^OOgle 

the pockets of his overcoat, feeling hungry 
and depressed, when he unexpectedly ran 
against a friend. He recognised Monsieur 
Sauvage, an old time chum of the river- 

Every Sunday before the war Morisot 
used to start at daybreak with his bamboo 
fishing rod in his hand, his tin bait and 
tackle box upon his back. He used to take 
the train to Colombes, and to walk from 
Original from 




-there to the Island of Maranthe. No 
sooner had ho arrived at the river than he 
used to begin to fish and continue fishing 
until evening. Here every Sunday he 
used to meet Monsieur Sauvage, a linen - 
draper from Paris, but stout and jovial 
wit hah as keen a fisherman moreover as he 
was himself. 

Often they would tdt side by side, their 
feet dangling over the water fur half a day 
at a time and say scarcely a word, yet little 
by little they became friends. Sometimes 
they never spoke at alh Occasionally they 
launched out into conversation, but they 
understood each other perfectly without its 
aid, for their tastes and ideas were the same. 

On a spring morning in the bright sun- 
shine, when the light and delicate mist 
hovered over the river, and these two mad 
fishermen enjoyed a foretaste of real 
summer weather, Morisot would say to his 
neighbour: **Hein! not bad, eh ? " 

And Sauvage would reply: ** I know 
nothing to beat it** 1 

This interchange of sentiments was quite 
enough to engender mutual understanding 
and esteem. 

In autumn r toward evening, when the 
setting sun reddened the sky 
and cast shadows of the 
fleeting clouds over the 
water; when the river was 
decked in purple ; when the 
whole horizon was lighted 
up and the figures of the two 
friends were illumined as 
with fire ; when the russet- 
brown of the trees wa^ lightly 
tinged with gold, and the 
trees themselves shivered 
with a wintry shake, Monsieur 
Sauvage would smile at 
Monsieur Morisot and say, 
"What a sight, eh? " 

And Monsieur Morisot, 
without even raising his eyes 
from his float would answer, 
*' Better than the Boule- 
vards, hein ! " 

This morning, as sxm as 
they had recognised each 
other they shook hands 
warmly, quite overcome at meeting again 
under ^uch different circumstances. 

Monsieur Sauvage sighed and murmur- 
ed, " A nice state of things." 

Monsieur Morisot, gloomy and sad, 
answered, u And what weather! To-day is 

New Year's day." The sky in fact was 
clear, bright, and beautiful. 

They began to walk along, sorrowful 
and pensive. Said Mori<ot, " And our 
fishing, eh ? What times we used to 
have ! " 

Sauvage replied, "When shall we have 
them again ? >T 

They went into a little "cafe" and had 
a glass of absinthe, and then started again 
on their walk. 

They stopped at another "cafe' 1 for 
another glass, When they came out again 
they were slightly dazed, like people who 
had fasted long and then partaken too 

It was lovely weather; a soft breeze 
fanned their faces. Monsieur Sauvage, 
upon whom the fre^h air was beginning to 
take effect, suddenly said : im Suppose we 
were to go ! " 

14 Go where ? " 

"Why, fishing! 1 ' 

ib But "where ? ,T 

11 To our island, of course. The French 
outposts are at Colombes. I know 
Colonel Dumoulin : he will let us pass 
through easily enough/' 

"they WKxr u.s mem w .iv k^juiuKo/ 


by Google 

Morisot trembled with delight at 
very idea : ki All right, I'm your man/' 
They separated to fetch their rod-. 
An hour afterwards they were walk- 
ing fast along the high-road, toward- the 
town commanded by Colonel Dumouliii, 

Original from 



He smiled at their request but granted it, 
and they went on their way rejoicing in the 
possession of the password. 

Soon they had crossed the lines, passed 
through deserted Colombes, and found them- 
selves in the vineyard leading down to the 
river. It was about eleven o'clock. 

On the other side the village of 
Argenteuil seemed as if it were dead. The 
hills of Orgremont and Saumons command* 
ed the whole country round. The great 
plain stretching out as far as Nanterne was 
empty as air. Nothing in sight but cherry 
trees, and stretches of grey soil. 

Monsieur Sauvage pointed with his 
finger to the heights above and said, 44 The 
Prussians are up there," and a vague sense 
of uneasiness seized upon the two friends. 

The Prussians ! They had never set eyes 
upon them, but for months past they had 
felt their presence near, encircling their 
beloved Paris, ruining their beloved France, 
pillaging, massacring, insatiable, invincible, 
invisible, all-powerful, and as they thought 
on them a sort of superstitious terror 
seemed to mingle with the hate they bore 
towards their unknown conquerors. 
Morisot murmured, " Suppose we were to 
meet them/' and Sauvage replied, with the 
instinctive gallantry of the Parisian, 
44 Well ! we would offer them some of 
our fish for supper." 

All the same they hesitated before 
venturing into the country, intimidated as 
they were by the all-pervading silence. 

Eventually Monsieur Sauvage plucked up 
courage: " Come along, let's make a start; 
but we must be cautious." 

They went through the vineyard, bent 
double, crawling along from bush to bush, 
ears and eyes upon the alert. 

Only one strip of ground lay between 
them and the river. They began to run, 
and when they reached the bank they 
crouched down among the dry reeds for 

Morisot laid his ear to the ground to 
listen for the sound of footsteps, but he 
could hear nothing. .They were alone, 
quite alone ; gradually they felt reassured 
and began to fish. 

The deserted island of Maranthe hid them 
from the opposite shore. The little 
restaurant was closed, and looked as if it 
had been neglected for years. 

Monsieur Sauvage caught the first gud- 
geon, Monsieur Morisot the second. And 
every minute they pulled up their lines 
Yith a little silver object dangling and 

Digitized by GoOgJC 

smuggling ° n the hook. Truly, a miracul- 
ous draught of fishes. As the fish were 
caught they put them in a net which floated 
in the water at their feet. They positively 
revelled in enjoyment of a long-forbidden 
sport. The sun shone warm upon their 
backs. They heard nothing — they thought 
of nothing — the rest of the world was 
as nothing to them. They simply fished. 

Suddenly a smothered sound/ as it were 
underground, made the earth tremble. The 
guns had recommenced firing. Morisot 
turned his head, and saw above the bank, 
far away to the left, the vast shadow of 
Mont Valerien, and over it the white 
wreath of smoke from the gun which had 
just been fired. Then a jet of flame burst 
forth from the fortress in answer, a 
moment later followed by another explosion. 
Then others, till every second as it seemed 
the mountain breathed out death, and the 
white smoke fornjed a funeral pall above it. 

Monsieur Sauvage shrugged his shoulders. 
" They are beginning again," he said. 

Monsieur Morisot, anxiously Avatching 
his float bob up and down, was suddenly 
seized with rage against the belligerents 
and growled out : 44 How idiotic to kill one 
another like that." 

Monsieur Sauvage : " It's worse than the 
brute beasts." 

Monsieur Morisot, who had just hooked a 
bleak, said : " And to think that it will 
always be thus so long as there are such 
things as Governments." 

Monsieur Sauvage stopped him : u The 
Republic would not have declared war." 

Monsieur Morisot in his turn : 44 With 
Kings we have foreign wars, with the 
Republic we have civil wars." 

Then in a friendly way they began ta 
discuss politics with the calm commqa- 
sense of reasonable and peace-loving men, 
agreeing on the one point that no one 
would ever be free. And Mont Valerien 
thundered unceasingly, demolishing with 
its cannon-balls French houses, crushing out 
French lives, ruining many a dream, many 
a joy, many a hope deferred, wrecking 
much happiness, and bringing to the hearts 
of women, girls, and mothers in France 
and elsewhere, sorrow and suffering which 
would never have an end. 

44 It's life," said Monsieur Morisot. 

44 Say rather that it's death," said Mon- 
sieur Sauvage. 

They started, scared out of their lives, as- 
they felt that someone was walking close 
behind them. Turning round, they saw 




r ?? 4»//j 


four men j four tall, bearded men, dressed as 
servants in livery, and wearing flat caps 
upon their heads. These men were cover- 
ing the two fishermen with rifles. 

The rods dropped from their frightened 
hands and floated aimlessly down the river. 
In an instant the Frenchmen were seized, 
bound, thrown into a boat, and ferried over 
tu the island. 

Behind the house they had thought un- 
inhabited was a picket of Prussian soldiers. 
A hairy giant, who was sitting astride a 
chair, and smoking a porcelain pipej asked 
them in excellent French if they had had 
good sport. 

A soldier placed at the feet of the officer 
the net full of fish, which he had brought 
away with him. 

11 Not bad, ] see. But we have other fish 
to fry. Listen, and don't alarm yourselves, 
You are a couple of French spies sent out 
to watch my movements, disguised as 
fishermen. I take you prisoners, and I order 
you to be shot. You have fallen into my 
hands — so much the worse for you. It is 
the fortune of war. Inasmuch, however, 
as you came through the lines you are 
certainly in possession of the password. 
Otherwise you could not get back again. 
Give me the word and 1 will let you go. JT 

The two friends, livid with fear, stood 
side by side, their hands nervously twitch- 
ing, but they answered not a word. 

Digitized by GoOQle 

The officer continued : u No one need 
ever know it. You will go home quietly, 
and your secret will go with you. If you 
refuse it is death for you both, and that 
instantly* Take your choice/' 

They neither spoke nor moved. 

The Prussian calmly pointed to the river 
and said ; "Reflect, in five minutes you will 
be at the bottom of that water. I suppose 
you have families/ 1 

Mont Valerie® thundered unceasingly. 

The two Frenchmen stood perfectly still 
and silent. 

The officer gave an order in German. 
Then he moved his chair farther away 
from the prisoners, and a dozen soldiers 
drew up in line twenty paces off. 

u I Will give you one minute/' he said, 
" not one second more/' 

He got up leisurely, and approached the 
two Frenchmen. He took Mori sot by the 
arm and said, in an undertone: "Quick! 
Give me the word. Your friend wil' 
know nothing, I will appear to give way, 

Monsieur Morisot did not answer. 

The Prussian took Monsieur Sauvage 
a^ide and said the same thing to him. 

Monsieur Sauvage did not answer. 

They found themselves once more side 
by side. 

The officer gave another order ; the 
soldiers raised their guns. 

By accident Mori sot's glance fell upon 




the net full of tish on the ground a few 
steps off. A ray of sunshine lit up their 
glittering bodies, and a sudden weakness 
came over him, ** Good-bye, Monsieur 
Sauvage," he whispered. 

s * Good-bye, Monsieur Morisot/* replied 
Monsieur Sauvage. They pressed each 
other's hands j trembling from head to foot. 

**Fire, ,f said ihe officer. 

Monsieur Sauvage fell dead on his face. 
Monsieur Morisot, of stronger build, stag- 
gered, stumbled, and then fell right across 
the body of his irierid, with his face turned 
upwards to the sky f his breast riddled with 

The Prussian gave another order. His 
men dispersed for a moment, returning with 
cords and stones. They tied the stones to 
the feet of the dead Frenchmen, and carried 
them down to the river. 

Mont Valerien thundered unceasingly. 

Two soldiers took Morisot by the head 
and feet. Two others did the same to 
Sauvage. The bodies swung to and fro, 
were launched into space, described a curve, 
and plunged feet first into the river. 

The water bubbled, boiled, then calmed 
down, and the little wavelets, tinged with 
red, circled gently towards the bank. 

The officer, impassive as ever, said, 4i It 
is the fishes 1 turn now." 

His eye fell upon the gudgeon lying on 
the grass. He picked them up, and called 
out T il Wilhelm/' A soldier in a white 
cap appeared. He threw the fish towards 

u Fry these little animals for me at once, 
while they are still alive and kicking. They 
will be delicious." 

Then he began smoking again , 

by Google 

Original from 


T is what a simple young 
writer once called " a beauti- 
ful truism " that baby is one 
of the oldest subjects in the 
world — indeed, it is almost as 
old as man — and yet it has 
seldom or never been treated with complete- 
ness. No doubt one reason for that is the 
fact that baby has never been able to make 
itself heard except in inarticulate cries, and 
no doubt also another reason is that people 
in general have not been until lately 
interested in any babies but their own. 

The difference between ancient and 
modern times is remarkable in nothing 
more than in the treatment of babies. 
Human life, merely as such, was considered 
less sacred then than now, and the average 
view of the baby was simply utilitarian. Was 
the baby, male or female, a healthy baby ? 
Was it likely to become a sturdy citizen or a 
stout soldier, or to be the capable mother of 
strong children ? Then let the baby live. 
Babies that did not satisfy these conditions 
were disposed of much as we dispose of 
superfluous puppies or kittens. And not 
even now, moreover, is baby life considered 
throughout all the world as something in 
itself delightful and valuable. Savage 
people and tribes are not such sinners in 
this regard as half-civilised nations like 
those of India and China. 

" What is the use of rearing daughters? " 
asked an intelligent Chinaman not long 
ago of an inquiring Englishman. " When 
young they are only an expense, and when 
grown they marry and go away. Whereas 

a son ." 

What a world of difference there is 
between that sentiment and this of "A 
Cradle Song," a recent poem by the young 
poet W. B. Yeats, where the mother 
addresses her baby thus : — 

" 1 kiss you and kiss you, my arms round ray own ; 
Ah ! how I shall miss you, my dear, when you're 
grown ! '* 

To us, in these later times, and with all 
the sentiments of Christian civilisation 
fostered in us, it is almost incomprehensible 
that any grown human beings could have 
the heart to extinguish the first struggling 
life of babies ; most of all does it seem in- 
comprehensible that the mother, whose 
nature is wont to w r ell up and flow out at 

Digitized by G* 

the first helpless cry of her infant, and the 
father, whose instinct is to hover over and 
protect and " fend for " both mother and 
child in their weakness, could ever sur- 
render, or with their own hands destroy, 
the creature whom they have brought into 
the world. But, strong as are the natural 
instincts, stronger still in many is religious 
fanaticism, stronger is a national or tribal 
tradition. And when we consider that it 
has taken ages of Christian culture and 
feeling to bring us to our present height of 
imaginative sympathy with all forms of life, 
till now we are agreed that no more beau- 
tiful, sacred, or divine sight is to be seen 
under the sun than that of a mother with 
a child in her arms, then we can under- 
stand that, while it is an outrage, a sin, and 
a crime to destroy a child among the 
taught of Christendom, it is but a hide- 
ous barbarism among the uninstructed of 

Turning to consider particularly the 
treatment of babies in various lands, by 
various peoples and tongues, we are com- 
pelled to note that even where infanticide 
or " exposure " is not practised, a similar 
result is worked out through the hardships 
— sometimes unconscious, sometimes de- 
signed — of infant life. The conditions of 
existence among many savage tribes are so 
severe that only the 4< fittest," the sturdiest, 
and wiriest constitutions can survive. There 
is, for instance, a very fine and intelligent 
tribe of blacks in the neighbourhood of the 
Cameroons, named the Duallas, which 
imposes from the first a very violent test 
upon the constitutions of their offspring. 
Like the ancient Germans, the Duallas take 
a child when only four or five days old and 
plunge it in the river. This is repeats 
every day till the child is strong and hardy 
enough to bathe itself, or till it has suc- 
cumbed beneath the treatment. Other less 
intelligent and more savage tribes of Africans 
train their children to endure torture from 
a very early age. Even the average nursing 
of the negro mother is enough to try the 
toughness of the child's constitution. When 
the child is being fed he is set astride his 
mother's hip ; and he must hold on how 
he can and get what nutriment he can, 
while his mother moves about her ordinary 
duties. When he is not thus attached to 
his mother he lies on a little bed of dried 
Original from 





Red ikehhtJ 

grass on the 
ground, in all thu 
simplicity in 
which Nature brought him into the world, 
and crams himself with earth or whatever 
he can lay his little black hands on. 

Akin to the negro** treatment of children 
— though considerably in advance as regards 
tenderness and picturesqueness — is that of 
the Red Indians of North America, The 
father and mother combine to make a very 
curious and ornamental close cradle or bed 
for the " papoose,'' In shape it is not un- 
like the long oval shield of the Zulu. The 
father cuts it out of wood or stout bark with 
his tomahawk and scalping-knife f and covers 
it with deer or buffalo skin, or, if he has not 
these, with matting or the softest bark of 
trees, leaving the upper side loose and 
open, The mother then adorns and em- 
broiders it with beads and grasses, and lines 
and pads it with the softest grass or moss 
or rags she can find. The * l papoose tT is 
lightly strapped in with soft thongs fastened 
to the board and passing under his arms, 
and then the covering is laced over him as 
one laces up a shoe, and nothing but the 
face of the " papoose tT is left exposed. 

Thus done up, baby can be hung (with a 
thong attached to his cradle) on the branch 
of a tree, or from the pole of the wigwam, 
or set in a corner out of the way. It may 
seem to us that the close confinement and 
the upright position of these nests cannot 
be very comfortable, but it is said that after 
tumbling about a while on the grass or 
among the dogs of the wigwam the Indian 
baby frequently cries to go back to his 
solitary nest. In this wise, too, is he 
carried, slung over his mother's back, when 
the tribe is on the march. The oval thing 
w F e have described is the prevalent pattern 
of cradle among American Indians, though 
iti the extreme north or in the extreme 
south modifications of the style obtain. The 
Flat-head mother, for instance, makes her 
papoose into a round bundle, with folds 
of bark and thongs of deer-skin, and carries 
it in a wooden receptacle something like a 
canoe, slung on her back, with a little 
pent-house or shade projecting over the 
baby's face. 

It is worth noting 
swaddling of infants 
among both barbarous and civilised peoples 
who dwell in sub-tropical or temperate 
climates. It is done not so much (or not 
only) to keep the child warm, but to prevent 
it from scratching itself, from moving about 
and hurting itself, and from bruising itself 
or breaking its tender bones if it should 
chance to fall. A baby, however, that is 

that this complete 
almost universal 


by LiOOglC 

Original from K 





done up tight and flat as a Red-skin baby is, 
must be almost as safe on a top-shelf as on 
the ground, The close swaddling and 
padding of baby is found, the more we con- 
sider it, to be the fashion among both 
civilised and barbarous kindreds, and 
peoples, and tongues, where women are very 
hard- worked. It is easy to understand how 
that must be. When the mother digs and 
plants the soil, and grinds the corn, draws 
the water and cooks the food for her hus- 
band and children — as does the savage 
woman of every clime — when she spins and 
brews , and makes and mends, and cooks and 
cleans, as does the house- 
wife of almost every de- 
gree in almost every 
country of Europe ; when 
the mother has thus her 
hands full of toil or occu- 
pation from morning till 
night, and when the ex- 
pense or the convenience 
of a nurse is not avail- 
able, what can she do, 
what must she do, with 
baby, but contrive some 
means of keeping him 
from troubling her and 
at the same time from 
damaging himself? 
Therefore the American 

Indian papoose is 
bound and laced in 
the thing we have 
seen ; therefore the 
Amazon Indian 
child is dung in a 
close net- like ham- 
mock from tree to 
tree ; therefore the 
New Guinea child 
hangs like a bunch 
of onions in a bag- 
net either from a 
jutting bamboo of his father's hut or on his 
mother's back by a strap passed across the 
forehead ; and therefore the European baby 
of several countries is wrapped and padded 
in the ways we are about to describe. 

A /■■■' # . 




^ by Google 

Of all house- wives 
in Europe, probably 
the German is the 
hardest worked, and 
of all European 
mothers the German 
practises most com- 
pletely the art of 
swathing and pad- 
ding her baby, and 
of putting it on the shelf. The Ger- 
man baby is swaddled in a long, 
narrow pillow, which is made to meet 
completely round him, being tucked 
up over his feet and turned under his solemn 
chin. Three bands of gay blue ribbons are 
i hen passed round the whole bundle and 
tied in large, florid bows about where his 
chest, his waist, and his ankles may be 
supposed to be. In this guise he can be 
Original from 


35 1 

deposited as an ornament either on the 
sumptuous best bed, or on the kitchen 
dresser, or on the drawing-room table. 
How fond the Germans are of this present 
tnent of baby may be guessed from the 
fact that it figures largely in their 
picture-books, among their dolls, 
and even in the bakers' shops 
at Easter*time, made of dough 
and covered with sugar to be 
devoured by greedy live 

The German mother 
has the completest 
confidence in the 

safety of her baby "a very queer 

when swaddled 

thus. But the 
confidence is 
sometimes be- 
trayed by the 
wrappage, as wit- 
nesseth the following 
story. A party of 
peasants set out for the 
christening of a new 
baby, the baby being 
swaddled and wrapped in 
the usual manner. The 
way was long to the church, 
and the weather was cold ; 
indeed, snow lay on the 
ground. The anxiety of the 
christening over, the whole 
party — parents, sponsors, and 
friends — adjourned to the vil- 
lage inn to warm and cheer 
themselves with scknap$ % or 
what the Londoner terms a a 
drop of something short. " They then 
set off on their return home lightly and 
gaily, and their hearts being merry 
within them they essayed a snatch or 
two of song and a step or two of dance* 
Home at length was reached, and the 
interesting christened bundle was laid 
on the table. The whole party — parents, 
sponsors, and friends — stared agape and in 
silence ; there was the pillow, the ribbons, 
and the bows all complete, but where was 
the baby ? Someone ventured to raise the 
bundle ; it was quite limp and empty ! 
Baby was gone ! Back the whole party 
hurried on its lonely track, and baby was 
found asleep in the snow, about midway 
between the church and the village. He 
was a sturdy child, and the story runs that 
he escaped with a violent sneeze or tw^o, 
which, it is said, the anxious parents strove 


il l| 

to allay by popping 
him into the oven. 
There can be no doubt 
that the German child 
that could survive 
the pillow, and the 
snow, and the oven, 
must have been sturdy 

Like the German 
mother in her treat- 
ment of infants is the 
Austrian — the real 
Austrian, that is, who 
is of Teutonic origin ; 
for the Austro-Hun- 
garian monarchy in- 
cludes so many nationalities, so many 
kindreds and peoples and tongues, that it 
would need a whole article to write of them 
all. And like also, with a curious difference, 
is the Swedish and Norwegian mother. 
The Swedish child, or barn — {compare the 
Yorkshire bam } and the Scottish bairn) — 
is swaddled in more complex fashion than 
the German, It is wound about with six- 
inch- wide bandages, sometimes with the 
arms free and sometimes not, sometimes the 
legs included in the whole bundle, but 
usually swathed separately. The bandages 
are traditionally supposed to make the 
limbs and figure grow straight. The 
bandaged barn is then wrapped in a pillow 
and tied about with ribbons and bows like 
the German child, except that frequently 
his arms are free and his legs are shortly 
and stoutly suggested by the tucking in of 
the pillow. After that he may be fastened 
flatwise to another pillow, and slung per- 
pendicularly from a supple pole stuck in the 
wall, so that he looks like a very queer fish 
indeed, fit to be shown outside the shop of 
an angling-tackle maker Like the German, 
the Swedish child always wears a cap, which is 
borderless and of special fineness for its first 
Sunday, when it is christened. Then, also, 
it wears beads upon its neck, and gorgeous 
garments with gay bows of ribbon, all which 
are provided by the godmother. In the 
remoter parts of both Sweden and Norway 
it is still the custom every Sunday to carry 
these swaddled infants to church, which is 
probably a long way off. They are not 
taken into church, however, but buried for 
warmth in the snow, in which a small hole 
is left for them to breathe through. 

In less primitive parts of Sweden and 
Norway, however, and among the better- 
off, the pillow -bundle often gives place to 




a wooden cradle, shaped 
like a trough or a French 
baquct s which is usually 
suspended by a spiral 
spring from the roof. 
The elastic motion can 
scarcely be of the most 
delightful kind to baby, 
we should think, for there is 
nothing to prevent the cradle from 
spinning or twisting round at its 
will, and so producing dizziness. 
In Russia, too, a similar cradle is 
used — contrived, however, more 
rudely as to both structure and 
motion, It is an oblong box 
or wicker basket, with 
from each of its four 
converging to the hook 
or the rafter from which 
it is hung, and with a 
looped cord under- 
neath, in which the 
mother puts her foot 
to swing her baby. In 
winter — which in 
Russia is long and 
severe— the cradles or, 
sometimes, the ham- 
mocks in which the 
youngest children sleep 
are slung round the 
great stove upon which 
the parents and other 
adult members of the 
family pass the night, 
wrapped in their sheep- 

France is the only other country in which 
ihe pillow is a necessary complement uf the 
baby, But the attachment of the two is 
nowadays characteristically French. It is 
a compromise between the old and the new, 
between tradition and fashion, and conse- 
quently it is not universal. The French 
baby (especially on gala days) is laid upon 
the pillow, and his fine frocks and gay 
ribbons, instead of enveloping his tender 
body, are spread upon him as he lies, so 
that he is no more than a kind of bas-relief. 
In France, however, it must be noted there 
came earlier than elsewhere in Europe — 
(one of the results of the Revolution)— the 
revolt against mere tradition and usage in 
the treatment of babies. Among well-to-do 
and aristocratic French folk, in particular, 
a change in that regard has long been in 
progress. The French child used to have 
always its pillow or cradle ; now it begins 


to lie upon a fresh, whole- 
some bed, neither of wool 
nor of feathers, but of hair or 
straw, or among country or 
sea-faring folk of sweet dried 
fern or bracken or pungent- 
smelling sea-weed ; and Govern- 
ment bureaux circulate among the 
peasants such directions as these : 
Lay the infant to sleep on its 
right side ; avoid putting it to 
deep in the lap before putting it 
in bed." The French baby used 
to wear a multiplicity 
of caps — a small close 
cap of fine linen, over 
which wa* a second of 
light flannel, and over 
that a third of some 
light and ornamental 
stuff ; now the caps are 
being discarded, and 
baby goes openly and 
baldly bareheaded. 
There is, however, one 
infantile institution to 
which well - to - do 
French folk cling ob- 
stinately, and that is 
the foster-mother or 
wet-nurse. The insti- 
tution had its origin 
ages ago, and w^as pop- 
ular with other than 
fine ladies who feared 
to spoil their shape 
with nursing. It was 
under the early Bourbon kings that the 
practice first became established of send- 
ing infants into the country, to some 

well-known dependant of 
be nursed and fed and 
That is